The Angels: Descent
by AngelsColonel
Summary: The story of the Angels Mercenary Regiment's garrison of St. John
1. Default Chapter

Chapter One

            "Second Lance, form up on the right flank and take the missile position!  They're killing us over here!" Colonel Bryan Cochren, commander of the Angels mercenary regiment, barked over the TacComm frequency.  

            The commander of First Company's Second Lance, Lieutenant Marcus Freeman, instantly answered an affirmative.  Glancing out of the cockpit of his VTR-9B Victor, Bryan watched the four heavy BattleMechs of his Second Lance break away from the center of the fighting and gain speed as they rushed off to the right flank.  

            BattleMechs were the kings of 31st century combat, carrying enough firepower in the form of massive lasers, autocannons, missiles and particle projection cannons to level a city block by themselves.  Standing between eight and twelve meters tall, they ranged in weight from light twenty-ton scout mechs to massive, lumbering hundred ton assault mechs.  It was generally held that only one thing could stop a BattleMech.  

            Another mech.

Things were not going at all well for the company under his command.  A combined arms unit consisting of a full company of mechs and a lance of heavy armor had ambushed his unit.  The Demolisher tanks that had sprung the trap had taken out two of his medium mechs in their first salvo of dual class twenty autocannons before being silenced by a withering counter fire.  The damage had been done, however. As any commander could tell you, the element of surprise counted for a lot in combat.  Third Lance, already at half strength because of the Demolisher tanks, had taken out the two Rommel tanks supporting the ambush before succumbing to a hellish crossfire of laser and autocannon fire from the ambushing unit's mechs.  Turning back to gaze out the front of the viewscreen, he noted another spread of long-range missiles arc up over a hill, heading straight for him.

            Taking his feet off the pedals that controlled the steps of his eighty-ton metal monster and stabbing them down on the studs to each side, he ignited the jump jets in the legs and back of his Victor, which he'd named Gabriel, and sailed up and over the salvo.  Heat blasted into the already sweltering cockpit as the jump jets fired.  His vest pumped a fresh wave of coolant through its tubes, the only thing keeping him alive in the intense heat of the mech's cockpit.  Sweat poured down his head, making the neurohelmet, a device that transmitted his own sense of balance to the mech's gyro, slip a bit.  Flexing the mech's knees and coming down with nary a wobble, he leveled the right arm of his mech at a shiny AS7-D Atlas painted with the red square of an enemy and pulled the trigger.  An incredibly loud _thump-thump-thump sang through the cockpit as his Pontiac class twenty autocannon ran through an entire clip, slamming the massive high-explosive, armor-piercing rounds into the goliath BattleMech's chest and left arm.  The 100-ton Atlas didn't even flinch, and he swung his left arm into line as well, triggering the two medium lasers housed in the wrist.  Twin ruby beams shot out and skewered the opposing Atlas, but if the enormous autocannon couldn't stop the mech, there was no way a couple lasers would.  _

            The Atlas swiveled as fast as its torso actuators would allow it, trying to get its own two hundred-millimeter autocannon into firing position.  Bryan slammed his feet onto the foot pedals again, taking one, then two steps as he tried in vain to get out of the weapon's firing arc.  A spread of short range missiles sailed from the tubes in the Atlas' left breast, four of them slamming into the Victor's right side, exploding in puffs of smoke and sound.  The gyro, which controlled the bipedal mech's balance, was thrown out of sync for a second, and the Victor faltered a step.  

            Another salvo of LRMs flew over the hill sheltering the missile boat mechs of the opposition just as the Victor's missed step let the Atlas line up its shot.  The thunderous roar of the mech's A/C sounded across the clearing as the shells stitched a line into the right arm and breast of Cochren's BattleMech.  The computer controlling the exercise determined that the combined effects of the autocannon's kinetic energy and the unbalanced gyro would cause the Victor to fall, and it locked the leg joints for a fraction of a second.  Bryan gritted his teeth and braced himself as best he could.  Not that it mattered much, as eighty tons of metal tipping over simply couldn't be land gently.

            He hit the ground hard enough to rattle the fillings in his teeth, but immediately began the task of getting the BattleMech back on its feet.  He had made it to the mech's knees when the computer informed him of his death, probably at the hands of a second autocannon salvo, and sent him back to the ground.

            He swore, then chuckled to himself.  "That damned computer is always so calm about it.  'BattleMech deactivated'," he imitated the computer's female voice.  One of these days he'd get a new package installed in the Angel's mechs.  A drill sergeant, maybe.  He smiled as the radio crackled to life, the voice of the unit's XO, David Mellert, coming through the speakers mounted in the Victor's cockpit.

            "Now, now, Colonel.  You should know better than to come down right in front of Death and I," he said.  'Death' was his Atlas, and Mellert had chosen the callsign Lucifer for himself.  Bryan often wondered if it warned of a rebellious nature or was just hi XO's idea of a joke.

            "Oh, like I meant to.  You just happened to be in my LZ.  Besides, I figured you'd be out of ammo by now," Bryan responded, referring to his XO's well-known tendency to rely on his ammunition based weapons, often running out of ammo completely within a couple minutes.  Mellert's chuckle was the only reply for a second as he turned his attention to one of Cochren's mechs, a heavy Grasshopper that was harassing the 100-ton king of the battlefield.  The radio spurted to life once more.

            "Well, you know,' his XO began, "if you'd just take a Cyclops or Atlas or something else really big and nasty you could take more than a single shot from my little old A/C-20."  The Colonel laughed.

            "We've gone over this before, Dave.  I need the mobility.  If I'd gotten one more step in, you'd have never been able to twist fast enough to bracket me.  Death's dead slow, and you know it."

            Again his XO laughed.  "Death may be a big-legged bitch, but she's pure mean.  Shall we call this one over?  That lance you sent over the hill ran straight into my Stalkers and got ripped up, and the only thing left over here is this damnable Grasshopper – who is that, anyway?  That new guy, Sun Chin?"  Mellert cursed, probably at another hit from the Grasshopper's plethora of lasers.  Chin had been accepted into the Angels only a week prior.

            "Yeah, that's him.  Pretty hot hand in that 'hopper, isn't he?"  He flipped on the regimental frequency.  "This is God.  All stop, the exercise is over at," he checked his watch.  "Oh four twenty-seven hours.  Good work people.  Back to the crib for a post-battle analysis."  The callsign, God, was coined by one of the regiment's original armor drivers.  When asked about it, the tanker would simply shrug and grin.  He commands the Angels, he'd say.  What else would you call him?

            The personnel that controlled the exercise released the computer-imparted restraints, freeing the 'dead' BattleMechs to get up and move freely.  All of the weapons were powered down for the exercise, with smoke rounds for ballistic weapons and the lasers and particle projection cannons nothing more than pretty light.  Colonel Bryan Cochren stood his Victor up and headed off the practice field and towards the spaceport, the rest of his Angels in tow.

            Seated at his desk later that evening, Bryan was going over the battle-ROMs from the afternoon's practice.  Coming from a wealthy Lyran family, Cochren had inherited a company that manufactured myomer, the 'muscles' of a BattleMech.  His company made him enough money to give him virtual free reign with his mercenary regiment, allowing him to be more selective in his MechWarrior choices and less thrifty than most strapped-for-cash mercenary groups when it came to equipment.  It also allowed him to field a considerably larger force at the beginning of his career as a mercenary than he otherwise would have.

            He had spent twelve years in the Federated Commonwealth's Armed Forces, rising to the rank of Kommandant, commanding a battalion.  After the end of his third term, he had chosen instead to retire from national military life and pursue the romanticized life of a mercenary.  He convinced a group of friends from the military, including his XO and one of his company leaders, to join him in his new endeavor, and the Angels were born.  Cochren had gone on a recruiting blitz on Outreach, the home world of the famous mercenary unit Wolf's Dragoons and base for all Inner Sphere mercenary activity.  Due to his money and contacts in the military, his efforts had been quite successful, and the Angels rapidly grew first to battalion, then to just over two battalions of combined arms.  Given the Angel's size of two battalions, his rank of Colonel was really honorary.  But the unit's reputation was solid, having completed several contracts for the Federated Commonwealth and Draconis Combine.  They had also taken part in the Ronin Wars, fighting for the Free Rasalhague Republic alongside Theodore Kurita as it attempted to break away from the oppressive Combine not so many years ago.

            Now it was 3049, and the Angels were once again looking for a contract with one of the Great Houses of the Inner Sphere.  There were garrison contracts available all over the galaxy, for any of the seven nations.  The pay for each was comparable, as well as the salvage rights and resigning bonuses.  The difference lay in location.  Cochren knew well the dangers of garrison duty.  No action sapped morale as well as skill.  If he was going to take a garrison contract, and it looked like he'd have to, then he would at least try to pick a location where there was the chance of doing something other than nightly patrols.

            The Angels had a suite of rooms to conduct business in while on Outreach, but the men stayed in barracks located near the spaceport.  It was there that the Angel's dropships stayed while on planet, the two massive Overlord class vehicles each capable of carrying a battalion of mechs with associated support personnel.  Dropships were only used for inter-system travel, however.  For traveling between the many stars that made up the populated galaxy, jumpships, with their delicate Kearney-Fuchida drives, carried the dropships.  The drives warped the space around them, ripping a hole in the fabric of the universe and instantly transporting the vessel and its cargo up to thirty light-years distant.

            A knock sounded from his door, and with a sigh he turned off the battle-ROM from Sun Chin's Grasshopper.  The man was very, very good with the seventy-ton mech, launching it all over creation to stay away from the more heavily armed mechs.  He'd definitely tied Major Mellert in knots with his bounding.  "Enter."

            The doorknob twisted and in walked the Angel's negotiator and agent, Leslie Nesmith.  Bryan smiled.  Leslie was an old friend, daughter of his parents' closest friends.  They'd known each other for nearly their entire lives.  He'd gone off into the military while she had pursued a business degree.  His parents hired her as a manager and advisor for the myomer company, CTI, and then Bryan had asked her along to aid in the business transactions of the Angels.  "What've you got for me, Leslie?"

            She gave him a lopsided grin and sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk.  "Nothing new, Bryan.  Nothing new.  Of the available garrison contracts, the best out and out deal is from the FWL," she said, referring to the Free Worlds League, a conglomerate nation under the rule of Thomas Marik.  I think I can argue them up a bit more, too."

            "Ahh, but Leslie, there's no way we'll see any action in the FWL.  Things are anything but hunkey dorey over there, but their problems are all internal.  They're on good terms with the FedCom and the Cappellans."  Nesmith sighed.

            "Boys and their toys."

            He chuckled.  "Boys with toys that can do a lot of damage should they go nuts from inactivity."  His demeanor shifted, suddenly becoming serious.  "What about the FRR?"

            "Well, since we've worked for them before, the negotiations would be pretty smooth.  As a whole, they're not real big on mercenaries.  Not to mention the fact that they don't have as solid a financial base as the FedCom or Snakes."  'Snakes' was a common slang term for the Draconis Combine, whose seal was a stylized dragon on a black background.  "But, and I assume this is why you're asking, it's the most unstable world to garrison.  There's always the chance that the Draconis Combine will try to bring the Free Rasalhague Republic back under its heel."

            Bryan smiled.  "Leslie, you always know just what to say to me."  She chuckled.  The two had never dated, only remained friends, and Bryan was, in fact, married.  His wife commanded Third Company.

            "Should I start talking to the FRR, then?"

            He shrugged.  "Get our foot in the door with them, but don't commit to anything.  We need to discuss it with the staff first, then put it before the Angels as a whole.  They say no - we don't go.  How soon could you have preliminary data on pay, salvage and the lot?"  Leslie looked at the ceiling for a minute, no doubt running figures from her last negotiations with the FRR through her head.

            "I'll see if I can get hold of them for a dinner meeting.  No promises, but perhaps late tonight I can give you some data."

            Cochren leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers.  "Excellent.  Unless you tell me otherwise, we'll have a meeting with the staff tomorrow morning at oh nine hundred, then a group meeting with the Angels at two or three hundred hours."  She nodded agreement, and he continued.  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to figure out how in the hell my XO hid two Demolishers from my scouts.  Unless you want to stick around and see me get my head handed to me by an Atlas."

            "What, watch the great Colonel Cochren lose?  Like I'd miss the chance."  She flashed a mischievous smile and stood.  "But I should really go track down the Rasalhague delegation and get this show on the road.  See you later tonight, Bryan."

            "Goodbye, Leslie.  Bring me back good news."

            Later that night, seated in the living area of the apartment that he owned on Outreach, the news vid he was watching was interrupted by a knock from the door.  It was a small affair, but allowed he and his wife some privacy and a chance to get away from the pressures of running a mercenary regiment.  His wife, Nichole, was just coming out of the bedroom, and walked over to open it.  Standing there beaming was Leslie.  "Hi, Les," she said, pulling the door open and signaling for her to enter and have a seat.  The unit's negotiator returned the greeting, seated herself, then said hello to Bryan as well while he watched the news, intent on whatever story was on at the moment.  He glanced at her, flashed a smile, and then turned back to the screen.

            "Seems the Hounds are heading out into Rasalhague space as well."  The Hounds were the Kell Hounds, one of the largest mercenary groups and, alongside Wolf's Dragoons themselves, the best.  "Wonder what they're up to?"

            "Search and destroy, Bryan.  They're going after pirates near the Periphery."  The Periphery was the area outside the Inner Sphere.  Often unmapped and largely unpopulated, it was a haven for bandits and pirates.

            He turned back to Leslie and raised an eyebrow.  "Where do you come up with this stuff?  Contracts are supposed to be confidential.  Yet every time I wonder aloud in your presence where another merc group is running off to you know.  It's kind of," he waved his hands and grimaced, searching for the right word.  "Disconcerting."

            She gave him a completely false and intentionally disarming smile.  "Relax.  I've got contacts, that's all."

            Cochren laughed.  "Did I ever tell you that I'm damned glad you're on our side?  How did dinner go?" he asked, switching off the news.  "I assume that's what you're here about.

            She shrugged, as if to say, what else?  Leaning forward, she placed the stack of papers she'd been carrying on the coffee table that was one of the few pieces of furniture in the room.  "If we want it, we're in.  Seems that we're one of the few outfits the FRR is inclined to trust with the security of their worlds, and since the Royal Kungesarme isn't exactly up to snuff yet, they're paying quite well for good units.  I think I can even get them above what we got from the FedCom last time."

            "Really?" Nichole asked.  The FedCom job had paid quite well, even netting the Angels a fair amount of salvage in the form of Major Mellert's Atlas and Bryan's own Victor.  She now piloted his old Lancelot, a sixty-tonner that had served him well through his years in the AFFC.

            "Really.  We're looking at an on the table offer of well into seven digits, with room and board provided once we make planetfall.  Obviously, with the Messiah at our disposal, transport isn't an issue."  The Messiah was the Angels' Invader class jumpship, capable of transporting three dropships across the desert of space.  CTI had originally owned the vessel, as well as a smaller Merchant class, but Bryan had taken the rechristened Invader to give his Angels an additional bargaining chip.  Cochren nodded for her to go on.  "The term is for six months, renewable on the agreement of both parties, and includes fair salvage rights.  The interesting bit, and I assume this is why we're attractive to them, is that they want the garrison unit to train their militia.  Everything from mechs to tanks to groundpounders," she said, using common slang for infantry.

            "Train their militia?  In six months?  Won't happen.  We could get them started, sure, but to get them into serious fighting shape would take a year, at least."  He raised an eyebrow, obviously expecting more information.

            Leslie answered him with another grin.  "Which only means that we're practically guaranteed a contract extension."  The couple both chuckled.  Leslie definitely knew her stuff. 

            "Shall I let everyone know that we're having a meeting tomorrow morning, then, love?" Nichole asked him.  Bryan had picked up the papers Leslie had brought and had sat back, thumbing through them.  He looked up, and nodded.

            "Leslie, I'd set up another dinner date with that FRR fellow.  Providing the crew is all right with heading out to Rasalhague again, the Angels will take to the heavens soon."


	2. The Angels: Descent Chapter Two

Chapter Two

            "No, no, no," the Colonel heard as he walked into the officer's room on board the Right.  The Angels' two Overlord dropships had been lovingly renamed the Right and Left Hand of God by the mercenaries' chief technician, Sean 'Fingers' McGee.  The tank drivers, especially their commander Major Dallas Shrike, and infantry took great delight in pointing out to the mech jocks that they occupied the favored Right Hand.  Shrike had been in the Demolisher that had sprung the trap on Cochren's forces during yesterday's exercises.  "You've got it wrong.  I heard that we're going to help the Dracs out.  Word's out that things are heating up in the Lyon's Thumb."  The Lyon's Thumb was a small area of the Federated Commonwealth that jutted into the neighboring Draconis Combine.

            The speaker was Captain Quix Neal, the leader of Second Company.  Entering with a flourish and sweeping the door shut with his foot as he came through, the Angels' Colonel laughed.  His chuckle stopped the major from blasting Neal with a verbal riposte.  "Close, Quix," he said, seating himself at the head of the table.  The Captain's odd first name was pronounced 'kicks', prompting many a discussion as to whether or not his parents liked him.  "But no cigar.  The good delegation of the Free Rasalhague Republic has made us an offer, and this is your chance to say yea or nay."

            "What world?" Mellert asked, sitting down again as his Colonel entered the room.

            Tossing the papers he'd brought with him on the wardroom table, Cochren leaned back in the chair and grinned.  "St. John."

            Everyone else leaned forward, not sure that they'd heard him right.  "St. John?" Perry Quince, First Company's CO, echoed.  Master Sergeant Kelly 'Old Man' Packard and Wing Commander Patsy 'Bumblebee' Richards exchanged incredulous glances.  The Old Man was the Angels' infantry commander, and as tough as they came.  He stood about six feet tall and was as stocky as Cochren was thin.  Bumblebee was the exact opposite, not even five feet tall and extremely petite.  She was the unit's aerospace wing commander, and Bryan had never seen anyone handle a sixty-five ton Shilone fighter like she could.  The Colonel nodded affirmation.

            "St. John.  Awesome," Neal breathed.  St. John was the very world they had fought the Draconis Combine Mustered Soldiery on during the Ronin War, winning it for the Free Rasalhague Republic.

            "Now," Cochren began, looking at each one of his officers in turn.  "This isn't the only option open to us.  The only contracts are garrison jobs-" he was cut off by a chorus of groans from around the table.  "-But St. John, oh-so-recently liberated by yours truly and company, is the best spot for potential action.  Who knows if old Takashi will decide he wants Rasalhague back?"  Takashi Kurita was the Coordinator of the Draconis Combine, whose Japanese heritage stressed honor above all.  "In addition to standard garrison duty, we'll be training a home-grown militia, including mech, ground, and air forces."

            "How long is the term for?" asked Richards.  While small physically and very unassuming, she reigned supreme in the air for the Angels.  It would be her responsibility to train the air forces of St. John.  Bryan turned to Nesmith and nodded, indicating for her to take over the conversation.

            "Six months-"  The Old Man laughed.

            "Ain't enough time," the rugged infantryman drawled.

            "-with a renewal incentive for an additional six months to a year, on agreement by both parties.  As Kelly put it, six months just isn't enough time to train a militia.  Which means that they'll need our help beyond this contract, and therefore giving us an excellent bargaining chip come renewal time," Leslie finished.

            "Do they have their own equipment, or will we be supplying it?" asked Quince, senior officer under Cochren and Mellert.  He had a knack for seeing the things other people missed.  Just like now.

            The negotiator shrugged.  "I honestly hadn't thought to ask.  I assume they'd have their own stuff, but I'll make sure in the next round with the FRR rep.  If I can, I'll get a listing of their assets to go along with a simple yes or no answer."

            "What about salvage rights?  Good, bad, or ugly?"  The officers shared a chuckle at the XO's posed question.

            "I suppose that depends on how the final negotiations pan out, but the standing offer is twenty-five percent material and fifty percent stores.  I may be able to get them to climb on that, but since this is a garrison job with no real threat of action, I'll concentrate on the flat rate pay.  Room and board is included, too, guys.  Apparently you'll be occupying the old Kurita base."

            "But that was completely destroyed during the fighting!  They restored the barracks without even having a force on planet to make use of it?" Neal asked incredulously.

            Bryan spoke up again.  "I think they've been planning this for quite some time, actually, but didn't put the contract offer up until the barracks were completed so they could use them as an additional incentive to take the contract.  And now they just want it to house us until we get their militia up and running and they do have their own forces on planet."  Neal nodded, along with most of the other officers.

            "Makes sense, I guess," said the Old Man in his peculiar drawl.  "What're the other offers?"

            Leslie sifted through her papers until she found a hand written one that she'd been taking notes on.  "There are contracts up for grabs from the FedCom, Snakes, and the FWL.  The ones from the Federated Commonwealth and the Draconis Combine are for worlds that are low on potential action, and the FWL is, well, the FWL.  The Draconis contract is for a world on the FRR border, and the FedCom and FWL contracts are each on the borders of the other." 

            "The FRR, then," Kelly said.  "I wonder if Ann Gregory still lives in Port Lucent.  We-"

            "-really don't need to hear about your love life, Kelly," interjected Patsy.  "My vote is for the FRR, as well.  I liked the people there."

            "Anyone else?" asked the Colonel.  Mellert, Neal, and his wife all nodded.  "Quince?  What's up?"

            "I couldn't really tell you, sir.  I just don't think it's a good idea, is all.  Call it a gut reaction.  I know we've been there before, which helps the welcoming process considerably, but I just don't like it."

            Cochren sat and thought about that for a second or two before responding.  "Well, Perry, you know I respect your opinion, but everyone else says yea.  We'll put it before the Angels later today.  If they give it a go, we're heading out rimward within a few days.  We'll just have to be ready for anything the Snakes can throw at us.  We kicked their asses before; we can do it again.  Agreed?"  There were nods of agreement all around.  "Go and let your people know that we'll have a full personnel meeting at oh three hundred this afternoon.  Dismissed."  The seven officers filed out, each heading for their crew's quarters to let everybody know about the general assembly.  Cochren glanced at his watch.  "Well, Leslie, I'm going to need as much information as you can give me that I can field questions from the guys, unless you want to get up on that podium with me."  She grinned and shook her head.  "And I think you should call up the FRR representative and arrange a more intimate meeting to discuss terms.  I can practically guarantee that they'll agree to another tour in the FRR.  There may be a few more like Perry, though.  The whole superstitious lightning-striking-twice mentality isn't uncommon among soldiers."  He sighed.  "Whatever it is that's setting off his instincts, though, will get a taste of what my angry Angels can do."

            "Forget all that!  Will we get our paychecks on time?" shouted one of the tankers from the ranks gathered outside the Overlord dropship Right Hand of God.  The Old Man gave the private a withering glare, but Cochren grinned as a ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.  While the fighting arm of the Angels was just over two battalions of ground forces and a dozen aerospace fighters, the actual size was exponentially larger, with crew of the dropships, mechanics, cooks, and all the sundry other people necessary to keep such a large outfit running.  

            "Whine, whine, whine!  I miss a couple of signatures and you people never let me forget it!"  More laughter.  They'd never missed a paycheck for lack of funds in the first place, even when it meant he paid them out of his own pocket.  The Colonel was quite adamant about keeping his people happy.  "If Leslie rips as much out of our dear friends the FRR as she seems to think she can, you'll all get a nice bonus on top of it all.  I'm also considering incentives for those of you who come up with suggestions for or take an active role in the training of St. John's militia."  The Angels cheered and burst into applause.  "So I ask you, Angels!  Yea or nay?" he boomed into the microphone.

            "YEA!" came the chorus of replies.

            Bryan nodded.  "Major Mellert?"

            His executive officer snapped a salute to him, then clicked his heels and faced the assemblage.  "Angels, suh-LUTE!"  Hundreds of hands snapped to their owner's foreheads, palm facing forward in the salute of the Federated Commonwealth's Armed Forces.  "Company dis-MISSED!"  The pair stood there on the gantry for a few minutes, watching the Angels fall out and go back to their assigned tasks.

            Cochren turned to his long-time friend and executive officer.  "Well, Dave, what do you think of this?"

            Mellert leaned against the railing, collecting his thoughts.  "Personally, I'm all for it.  St. John beats the hell out of some of the places we've been."  He smiled as a lance of BattleMechs stepped out of one of the Left's bays.  A shiny Grasshopper was in the lead, followed by a Trebuchet, Catapult, and a heavy Cataphract.  The Grasshopper's head swiveled to face the officers and the thin mech waved as it walked by.  Its external speakers boomed with an Asian-lilted voice.

"Good afternoon, Major Mellert!"  Mellert cursed.

Pointing at the mech, he shouted, "You just wait, you little bouncing flea!  Next time!"  Sun Chin's laughter rattled off the permacrete of the spaceport before he turned the speakers off.  Bryan laughed.  Dave turned back to him.  "You think it's funny?"  Now he nodded, and Dave chuckled along with him.  "Man, but he's good.  I could only get a back laser shot at him, and he must have whittled away five or six tons of armor from Death."

"Yeah, he's definitely a hot one," the Colonel agreed.  "Too bad he's green, or I'd already have him as a lance leader at Lieutenant."  He turned back from watching the quartet of mechs and faced his XO again.  "You watch it, Dave! Pretty soon he'll have your job!"

The bigger man scoffed and changed the subject.  He knew better than to justify that with a response.  "If he lives that long."  He shook his head.  "But anyway, back to the point.  Going back to a world you helped liberate?  What are the odds?  Those people love us, so we'd be hard pressed to find a better welcoming committee."

"Yeah, I guess."

"What do you mean, 'you guess'?" Dave asked.

Cochren shrugged.  "I guess.  I mean, I agree with you that going back to St. John is a one in a million shot as a mercenary unit, but Perry's got me spooked now.  I can't help but think that there's something in the shadows somewhere, just waiting to jump up and bite us in the ass."

"Whoa, Bryan.  You afraid of the Snakes all of a sudden?"

Colonel Cochren laughed.  "Now, you know better than that.  We kicked their tails before and we can do it again.  It's just one of those things."

Mellert nodded somberly and turned to stare across the tarmac of the spaceport.

"Yeah…one of those things."  

In the soldier's life, ignoring those 'things' often got one killed.

"How's it coming, Kerry?" Bryan shouted across the open expanse of permacrete later the next day.  Kerry Brown was the Captain of the Left Hand and thus the mechjocks' ride.  Right now she was standing outside the massive Overlord dropship supervising the loading of liquid helium into the ship's massive fuel tanks in preparation for liftoff.  

She turned at his voice and snapped a smart salute.  While on the ship the Captain was the Supreme Being, but here on the ground she deferred to the Colonel just like any groundpounder.  "Not bad at all, Colonel," she replied.  "Not bad at all.  The tin men are all loaded up, we're just finishing with the perishables for the trip out to St. John, and the fuel's just about done as well.  I figure another 3 hours until liftoff."

After his talk with his XO, Bryan had left to attend the final negotiations with Leslie Nesmith.  After what seemed to him to be interminable hours of haggling and accountant double-talk, she had announced the papers ready to sign, which he had.  Then they had had to rush to the Mercenary Bonding and Review Commission to have the contract ratified by the Mercenary Review Board.  By the time that process had been finished, it was nearing one o'clock in the morning local time and he was beat.  He had notified the Angels that the deal was done and retreated to his apartment to sleep.  By the time he had woken up, he'd found most of the Angels' mechs already loaded and stowed and the vehicles still rolling, hovering, or clanking their way up the ramps into the Right.  As usual, his XO was right on the ball, getting everyone ready to ship out for the Angels new contract.

"Excellent, Kerry.  Tell you what.  When you're one hour from liftoff, give me a call.  Until then, Major Mellert's the man in charge.  I'm going to go see Morgan before we head out."  Before she'd even begun to nod, he had spun on his heels and started to walk briskly away.  

She grinned lopsidedly.  "Yes, sir, Colonel, sir!"  She saluted his back, and he turned around to flash a smile at her and keep going.  He'd gotten another ten paces before she called out, "Morgan, sir?"

Without turning around, he shouted over his shoulder, "Morgan, Kerry!  Morgan Kell!"

She turned back to the helium loader and raised an eyebrow.  Morgan Kell?  The leader of the Kell Hounds?  She shook her head.  The guy never failed to amaze her, and somehow it didn't surprise her at all that he knew the cousin of the Archon.

"Ahh, well," she said to herself.  Maybe up in space she'd ask him about it.  Spotting a possible trouble spot, she suddenly shouted, "No!  That's the overflow valve!  The other one!"  Shaking her head, she headed off to give the young crewman a tongue lashing on paying attention.

Getting to see the venerable leader of the Kell Hounds was no mean feat, unless you knew him.  Morgan Kell was widely thought to be the greatest MechWarrior alive, Justin Xiang-Allard's Solaris Championship notwithstanding.  He had retreated for meditation and reflection for many years, emerging from his shell to fight a duel against his old enemy, Yorinaga Kurita.  He had remained with the Kell Hounds afterwards, although not technically their Colonel anymore, and he was just the man Bryan wanted to talk to.

The two had known each other for quite some time, both professionally and personally.  When he was ushered into Morgan's room on Outreach, he found the older man sitting peacefully in an easy chair and sipping what appeared to be brandy from a small glass.  "Bryan!" the legend burst out.  Getting up, he walked quickly across the room and grabbed Cochren's hand in a firm grasp.  "How the hell have you been?"

"Great, Morgan, just great.  The Angels are heading into Rasalhague space in just a few hours, as a matter of fact."  Morgan raised a bushy eyebrow.  "I hear the Hounds are as well?"

The man nodded.  "Yeah, Dan signed a contract with them to put an end to some pirate activity near the Periphery.  He didn't commit much, just a company, so most of the Hounds will stay here for a bit before heading off to Arc Royal."  Dan Allard was Justin Xiang-Allard's brother and now the Colonel of the Kell Hounds.  Arc Royal was the Hounds' homeworld, of which Morgan was the Duke.  Being the cousin of the Archon of the Federated Commonwealth was not without its perks.  "Where are your Angels heading?"

"St. John.  Garrison duty."

"St. John?  Isn't that the world you defended during the Ronin Wars?"  Cochren nodded.  "Oh, where are my manners?  Would you like a drink?"  The Angels' Colonel nodded again.  "What'll you have?"

"Is that brandy you've got there?" he asked, pointing at Morgan's glass.  Morgan, by way of answering, popped open his liquor cabinet and held up a bottle.  "I'll take some of that, then."  Morgan poured a snifter of brandy, brought it over, and then sat back down across from him.

"So, what brings you in?  I haven't seen you in, what?  Three years?  I doubt this is merely a social call with you being so near liftoff."

Bryan smiled.  "You're as perceptive as ever, Morgan."  The older mercenary scoffed.

"Don't try to butter me up, Bryan.  We've known each other too long."

Cochren held up a hand.  "I'm not, Morgan, I'm not.  I just came to ask you something, since I know your information sources are better than mine."

Kell shrugged.  "Shoot."

"Have you heard anything of something brewing in Rasalhague?"

"Other than Ryan and his pirates?  No.  And I doubt he'd come in so far as St. John.  The Royal Kungesarme, while still small, would make mincemeat of him."

"Nothing else?"  Kell shook his head in negation.  "Hmph."

"What's the matter?  Have you heard something?"

"No, no.  One of my company commanders has a bad feeling, and he infected me.  Like there's something everyone's missing, and I was hoping you could shed some light on it."

Morgan held out his hands.  "I'm sorry, Bryan.  Wish I could help you out.  Trust me, if I knew anything, I'd tell you.  The Hounds are going that way, too, remember."

"I know, Morgan.  I know you wouldn't hold out on me either."  He drained the rest of the brandy from his glass and raised it with an inquisitive look.  Morgan nodded, so he stood and filled the snifter again.  "For you?"

"No, I've had enough already, thanks." 

"Suit yourself.  You used to drink everyone under the table."  They both laughed.  "So tell me, how are Phelan and Caitlen?"  

"Good, good.  Phelan's got one of those Wolfhounds that Dan designed years ago…great light 'mech.  Beats the crap out of those Panthers that the DCMS uses.  He's in the company going into Rasalhague, actually."

The two Colonels talked for nearly another hour, one soldier to another, as friends.  Glancing at his watch, Bryan finally stood up.  "Well, I should be going.  We're due to lift off in about-"  His phone rang, and he chuckled.  "Well, apparently in an hour.  It was good to see you again, Morgan."

"Likewise, Bryan."  He stood and shook his hand again, then his face went stern.  "You be careful.  Garrison or no, don't discount your gut feelings."  Cochren gave him a warm smile, then turned and left.

"Everybody strap in, we take off in two minutes," Captain Brown announced over the public address system of the Left.  The massive Overlord dropships would lift and burn out-system together before docking with the Messiah and making the first jump on the long trip to St. John.  At a leisurely one gravity's worth of acceleration, the trip to the Messiah would take almost three days.  Then the Angels' faced several months' worth of travel by jumpship before finally reaching their destination

It was a rather ironic truth that faster than light travel by jumpship wasn't really very fast.  While the jumpship's Kearny-Fuchida drives could instantly transport them up to thirty light years away, the massive drives required so much power to operate that it could take up to two weeks to recharge after using it.  Some jumpships had newer lithium-ion batteries that allowed the ships to make two consecutive jumps without recharging, but such ships were few and far between, and the Messiah wasn't one of them.

Five tones sounded throughout the dropship, signaling the final five seconds before main drive ignition and liftoff.  As the last tone sounded, an enormous roar thrummed to life from the bowels of the huge ship.  The engines ignited, and slowly the dropship lifted off the permacrete tarmac, its sister ship the Right only a few seconds behind.  On board each ship the crew and passengers braced themselves at the sudden acceleration, their bodies feeling many times heavier as before from the boost needed to escape Outreach's gravity well.  A short while later, the pressure eased, the dropships having escaped Outreach's atmosphere and gravity well and accelerating at a steady one G.  The Captain and bridge crew unbuckled their harnesses and got up to stretch, with Bryan following suit.  Brown made her way to the communications console and pulled a microphone towards her.

"We're up, everyone.  You can unbuckle and move freely.  We'll keep a constant one-G for thirty-three hours before flipping for deceleration.  Welcome back to the Heavens, Angels, and be nice to your crew.  We've got you in the palm of our Hand."  The bridge crew laughed as Cochren made his way over to Kerry to pat her on the back.  

"Another perfect liftoff, Kerry.  How do you do it?"  The tall woman turned her gray eyes on him.  She was big, powerfully built and the total physical opposite of Bumblebee Richards.  They were, naturally, best friends.

She smiled at him and pulled a lock of dark brown hair out of her eyes.  "Because I'm the best, Colonel."

Chuckling, he pointed out the heavily reinforced viewport at the Right and playfully chided her with, "Oh?  I don't think Yuri would agree with you."  Yuri Griegorovich was the Captain of the Right Hand and a huge bear of a man.  It was rumored that the two were something of an item, but Bryan didn't know or care as long as it didn't impact their performance as dropship Captains.  Brown shrugged.

"I could clean his clock any day, and he knows it."  Cochren laughed and walked towards the bridge door to head for the mess and see about getting some coffee.  As the bulkhead door closed behind him, he heard her mutter, "He'll just never admit it!"

Traveling from the command deck near the bow of the vessel to the mess room deep in the bowels of the forty-story vessel took quite a bit of ladder climbing.  He had to pass the barracks section, as well as the crew quarters before getting there.  He found the coffee already brewing, Nichole, Quix, the Old Man and Perry all standing around chatting.  He kissed his wife and greeted his officers while waiting for the coffee to finish.

"So where were you this morning before liftoff?" Nichole asked him, slipping an arm around his waist.

"I went to go see Morgan."  She nodded, then waited, obviously expecting more of an answer.

"And…?"

"And we talked.  Played catch up.  It's been years since we saw each other, you know."  Quix raised an eyebrow.

"Morgan, Colonel?"

Nichole elbowed him in the gut.  "Kell, Quix.  Morgan Kell.  You know.  As in Colonel Morgan Kell of the Kell Hounds?"  Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Yes, thank you, I know who Morgan Kell is.  I just didn't know our esteemed Colonel knew him."

"I've known Morgan for almost twenty years now, Quix.  I actually applied with the Kell Hounds way back before he took his hiatus from mercenary life and retreated to the St. Marinus House."  Bryan's gaze was off in some distant memory as he spoke.  "He told me to go join the regular army for a while and then come back to see him.  He made quite an impression on me back then, and we kept in touch through my stint in the AFFC.  When I retired from the House military, though, I started my own mercenary group instead of reapplying with the Hounds.  They didn't have any open slots for someone with my rank and experience, anyway.  I still talk to Morgan whenever possible, ask him for advice on running a large merc unit or just life in general."  His officers nodded politely.  "But anyway.  I came down here to get some coffee and look for Mellert.  Any idea where he is?"

 Ten minutes after Cochren entered the simulation training room, one of the pods popped open and Sun Chin stepped out, dripping in sweat and wearing standard MechWarrior garb of shorts and a cooling vest.  Beaming and obviously pleased with himself, he tossed his Colonel a salute before heading to the analysis computer to check his most recent scores out.  Out of another pod further down the line of eight stepped his XO, Major David Mellert.  The bigger man, his dark brown hair cut short and dripping with sweat, did not look happy.  Bryan smirked from where he leaned up against a bulkhead.  "He whipped your ass, didn't he, Dave?"  It wasn't really a question.  He got a sweaty towel in the face in lieu of an answer.  Laughing, he tossed it back to him as the other began his rant.

"That damned Grasshopper!  Christ, but he lives up to that thing's name!  I don't think I've seen anyone jump as often or as good.  And boy, it doesn't screw up his aim any.  We started out on opposite sides of hilly terrain.  I took my sweet time coming up-"

            "Is there any other way in an Atlas?" Bryan interjected.

            Dave gave him a baleful glare.  "And just when I got near the top, WHOOSH!  Over he goes, sailing along on those Leviathan Lifters like there's no tomorrow.  Before I can even think of turning around, he's put a hole in my right rear torso big enough to shove a car through and I missed entirely with my rear lasers as he takes off again!"  His XO sighed.  "My only consolation is that it took him so long to put me down."

            "Did you get a piece of him at all?" Cochren asked.

            "Oh, yeah, after a couple of rounds like that I managed to kick him in the gut with my Mech Hunter A/C.  I also got the odd missile and laser potshot in, but not enough to take him down.  I don't know how they got enough heat sinks in that thing for him to jump so much.  He must have leapt a hundred and twenty times inside seven minutes!"  Bryan chuckled.  "What?"

            "Did you notice anything odd about his weapons choice?"

            Dave gave him an odd look.  "No."

            "He ever use his LRMs on you?"

            "No, but he was always pretty close.  I just figured he was inside the minimum range for them."  The Angels' Colonel was shaking his head, and the answer belatedly dawned on Mellert.  "Fingers took it out, didn't he?  And replaced it with more heat sinks."

            "Yeah.  I never saw the reason for the LRMs in the first place, especially in the head.  Really rattles you around when five missiles go streaking out of the tubes right next to you.  Grasshopper's made to get down and dirty anyway, with those lasers and jets."  Sun Chin came walking up, having finished his post-battle analysis.  He saluted both of them.  "And there's no better 'hopper pilot than this guy."

            Mellert stuck his hand out at Sun Chin.  "Boy, you got the stuff.  Glad to have you with us."

            Chin shook the hand firmly, then bowed.  "Thank you, Major.  Would you care to spar again?"  Mellert chuckled.  

            "No, thanks, I think I'm done for the day.  Why don't you ask the Colonel here?"  Dave shot him a mischievous grin.  Cochren shrugged.

            "Why not.  Dave, why don't you get yourself cleaned up and start pulling all the old and new info we have on St. John together.  Be ready in an hour."

            His XO saluted with a, "Yes, sir!" and wandered out of the sim room.  

            Bryan turned back to Sun Chin.  The youthful Capellan was wearing a huge grin.  "Well kid, are you up to taking on God?"


	3. The Angels: Descent Chapter Three

Chapter Three

            "Trainer begins in three…two…one…begin," the computer controlling the simulation announced in the pods occupied by Colonel Bryan Cochren and MechWarrior Sun Chin of the Angels.  Bryan immediately began working the foot pedals of the pod, sending electronic signals to the myomer muscles of Gabriel and moving the massive legs one by one in a slightly less graceful parody of human walking.  Picking up speed, he heeled over to the right and headed for a group of trees that stood in a shallow valley created by a pack of hills.  Chin wasn't on his sensors at the moment, but that was no cause for worry.

            Chin was good, he knew, but experience counted for a lot.  His Victor was just as nimble as the younger warrior's Grasshopper, even if he personally wasn't as good at jumping.  After almost a minute, he entered the treeline.  He worked his way farther into the forest until he was sure he wouldn't be spotted visually, and slowly made the massive machine kneel.  Then he powered down as much of the 'mech as he dared and set about scanning the surrounding hills for movement.  

            Being almost fifty yards into the small forest should make him all but invisible to passive scanners, although an active scan would pick up the output from his mech's fusion reactor.  He was counting on Chin playing it cool just as he was.  Unfortunately it meant his sensors were blind as well, which just meant he had to rely on his good old eyeballs.  After nearly twenty minutes he caught something out of the corner of his eye.  Turning his head slightly to look at the spot, he caught it again farther to the left.  Then it appeared again.  Bobbing slightly above the crest of the hill with each footstep, the head of Chin's Grasshopper kept peeking at him.  It looked comical, but he was undoubtedly searching for his Colonel's Victor.

            "Gotcha," he muttered, and brought Gabriel up to full power again.  Standing slowly, he moved nearer the edge of the treeline.  Now a bare twenty meters into the forest, he watched as the bobbing head turned suddenly, and the whole mech came into view as it crested the hill.  At well over six hundred meters away, there was no chance of Cochren's short-range weaponry even making it that far.  He hunkered down again, making the Victor as small a profile as possible and gradually easing the metal man's arms into firing position, floating the pale green crosshairs across the Grasshopper's form on his HUD.  He watched the range finder tick down across three hundred meters, the extreme range for his weapons, and then his crosshairs flashed gold, the signal for a target lock.

Clamping his right finger down on the trigger, he sent a whining stream of

depleted-uranium slugs downrange at the opposing mech.  The autocannon burst mowed through a couple small trees in the line of fire, then caught the machine in the hip and stitched down the leg.  The stream of slugs blew the small armor brace from the mech's left knee and caused it to stagger.  A wave of heat poured into the cockpit.  

Throttling Gabriel to life, Bryan stood and burst from the treeline, loosing a round of four short-range missiles.  One impacted on the mech's broad chest, barely scratching the armor there, and the Grasshopper took to the air, making the medium lasers in the Victor's left wrist miss low with the other three missiles as it soared over them.

            At the apex of its leap, Chin fired his own medium lasers, their scarlet beams stitching three lines across the Colonel's chest.  The loss of a ton of armor threw the Victor's gyro out of whack, nearly sending it to the ground.  Hitching his next step, Bryan kept Gabriel upright and running.  The Grasshopper landed hard off to his right and immediately swiveled towards him and leapt again, trying to get over and behind the Victor.  Soaring above the Victor with a bare twelve meters to spare, Chin popped off another laser shot, this time with his eight centimeter beam.  The emerald bolt ran across the assault 'mech's shoulders and head, melting most of the Colonel's cockpit protection away.  The Grasshopper landed about fifty meters from the Victor with its back to him.  Bryan had already lined up his shot, having twisted the Victor's torso around to the left as the Grasshopper sailed overhead.  Twin ruby beams shot out, impaling the seventy-ton 'hopper in the back, but failing to breach the armor there.  Bringing the mech up short as Chin turned to face him, both MechWarriors took a second to steady their aim before letting fly with all they had.

            Chin's light show, consisting of an emerald large laser and four smaller medium lasers, ripped into the Victor's tough hide, stripping all of the armor from the assault mech's left arm and shredding the myomer musculature there.  The large laser played its beam over the mech's center torso, ripping an ugly gash across the pristine armor there.  Bryan stepped Gabriel back a meter to steady himself, then returned fire with a vengeance.

            One of the two medium lasers in Cochren's left forearm again tore into the Grasshopper's left leg, stripping the last of the armor from it but failing to do any internal damage.  Three of the four short-range missiles impacted on the mech's broad chest, pitting the armor there, while the final one slammed into the mech's head and exploded.  Bryan winced in sympathy.  The cockpit simulators tended to jerk around a lot when faking a head shot, and it wasn't a pleasant experience for the 'Warrior inside.  The high-pitched scream from the Victor's Pontiac 100 class twenty autocannon rang out again, and the heavy slugs tore into the Grasshoppers right shoulder, rending the arm from the mech and sending it spinning off through the air.  The Grasshopper reeled wildly, the sudden loss of so much weight throwing it's gyro off.  Chin recovered quickly, however, and launched his mech in another jump almost immediately.

            The leap was so sudden and the distance so short that only one thought ran through Cochren's head before the heavy mech slammed into his Victor.  _Death from above!_  

            The Grasshopper plowed feet-first into the Victor's left shoulder, flipping the heavy mech over the top of Cochren and driving him backwards into to the ground.  The cockpit shook something horrible, slamming him to the full range of the restraint harnesses and back again while the computer calmly informed him of the loss of the mech's left arm and most of its back and left torso armor.  Glancing at the systems board on the console, he set about getting the Victor back on its feet again, first rolling over and then levering himself up with the autocannon.

            He managed to get fully upright while the Grasshopper was still crouched on one knee, facing the wrong direction.  The seventy-ton BattleMech looked much the worse for its desperate maneuver, with most of its front torso armor gone and the right arm bent the wrong way.  Bryan swore in admiration that Chin had even managed to right the 'mech with only one badly damaged arm.  Swinging his massive autocannon into line with the mech, he carefully sighted.  Waiting for the crosshairs to flash gold, he pulled the trigger, sending a devastating stream of depleted-uranium slugs through the mech's left leg, severing it at the knee and dumping the savaged GHR-5H to the ground again.

            Sitting in the sweltering simulation cockpit, Bryan shook his head.  The kid definitely had the skills.  His Victor was minus an arm and you could probably shove a Locust through the hole in Gabriel's left torso.  He opened the comm line to his opponent.  "Chin, do you yield?"

            The Asian-lilted voice came back immediately with, "Do I have a choice, sir?"

            The Colonel laughed and pointed the Pontiac 100 at the prone mech.  "Not really, kid."

"Well, Dave, what have you got for me?" Cochren asked as he entered the

wardroom after showering.  While the simulation pods were just that – simulations, they were very realistic, right down to the amount of heat produced by the various fans and heaters installed in them.  His XO was sitting at the table they had gathered around almost two days ago to decide whether or not to pursue the Rasalhague contract.  Arrayed in front of him was a stack of papers and his laptop computer.  The optical drive on it hummed as it read the information disc that the FRR representative had given them.  

            "Well, you remember Harper Meryl?" Dave replied as he swiveled the chair to face his Colonel.  Bryan nodded and sat down.  "Seems he's the planetary administrator for Magnusson now.  In addition-"  Bryan held up his hand, forestalling the rest of Mellert's explanation.

            "Why don't we get the rest of the officers in here or online.  I just wanted a quick update, but you're obviously prepared for this one already."  He grinned.  Dave glared at him.  He hated giving briefings.

            "You…How did your fight with Mr. Sun Chin go?" he asked, changing tact.  

            "Pretty well, all things told.  He's an incredible jumper, especially for piloting something that heavy.  A Grasshopper's just no match firepower and armor-wise for my Victor.  I took him down after a couple exchanges, kneecapping him with my Pontiac."  He reached over and poked the Major in the shoulder.  "He did make things interesting, though.  All you need is a bit more speed and you'd get him, too, you know.  He's damned good, but still inexperienced."

            "Hmm…Did you finish the roster yet, Bryan?  We're up to forty mechs and 'Warriors now, right?"

            "Yeah.  Perry has First, Quix Second, and Nichole Third.  We added the three 'mechs and five 'Warriors to Nichole's command to bring it up to a full company.  Grabbed a Trebuchet, a Panther, and one guy brought with him a Mongoose that he insists dates back to the Star League.  It's got some really interesting electronics built into it that Fingers was salivating over.  You'll still be in charge of coordinating combined arms actions.  The regimental command lance will consist of you, me, Graham Jordan…" Jordan was the Angels' communications specialist.  His ninety-ton CP-10-Z Cyclops, Betty Lou, was jammed with gear to coordinate the Angels – ground, air and space.  "…and Sun Chin."  Dave raised an eyebrow

            "You're adding Chin to the command lance?  Some of the Angels aren't going to like that."  Cochren shrugged.

            "I think this kid's got the stuff to be in a leadership position.  Having him in the command lance as a 'bodyguard' of sorts will let me see firsthand how he reacts to combat situations.  Besides, it makes for good order.  Seventy-tonner, eighty-tonner, ninety-tonner, and a hundred."  He grinned.  "If they don't like it, that's their problem.  Anyway, the armor battalion hasn't changed much at all.  We managed to pick up a quartet of Maxim hover transports for the Old Man's infantry, as well as replacing Gregor's lost Transgressor with a heavier Stingray.  Made him happy."

            "I imagine so.  Isn't everyday you get a new aerospace fighter.  What's the TO&E up to, then?"  The Table of Organization and Equipment was a record of everything a mercenary group owned.

            "We stand at forty mechs, four platoons of foot infantry, one jump, and two anti-mech platoons.  We still have a squadron of aerospace support with the addition of Gregor's new Stingray, along with nearly a battalion and a half of armor, ranging from Savannah Masters to Demolishers and a Schrek for the really big stuff.  But you know that better than me.  One Long Tom and a Thor for artillery support.  The Right, Left, and Messiah round it all out."

            Mellert pushed back his chair and stood.  "Well, why don't I go get Quix, Perry, and Nichole.  Should we get Kerry in here, too?"

            Nodding, Cochren reached across the table and snagged Dave's laptop.  "Yeah.  Have Jordan whistle up the Old Man, Bumblebee, Shrike, and Griegorovich as well on the conference band.  We'll get everyone up to speed at once since we've got a lonely couple days of burn up here before hitting the Messiah.  Everyone's had an hour and a half or so since liftoff to settle down.  Now it's back to business."  Dave stood and walked out of the room as Cochren began perusing the information contained in the data discs.  Five minutes later he had returned with Captains Brown and Quince in tow.

            "Nichole and Quix will be here in a minute.  They're having a grand time watching Chin take on the recon lance of Second Company single-handed."  The Colonel laughed, and his XO grinned as well.  "Okay, so maybe Quix isn't having that great a time, seeing as how Chin was cleaning up on them, but your wife was laughing it up."

            "She'll get her turn."

            "Yeah, well…" Mellert trailed off as the remaining pair of Captains entered the room.  "Everybody ready?"  They all nodded.  "Good.  Richards, Shrike, Packard, you guys there?"  Affirmation came through the PA system in the wardroom.  The voices were tinny, but recognizable.

            Mellert snatched his laptop back from the Colonel and announced, "Then let's get down to it."

            The briefing of the situation on St. John took the better part of the afternoon.  At least, what would have been afternoon.  The dropships were running on St. John time in order to acclimate the Angels to the nineteen-hour days.  

Quite a bit had changed in the years since the Angels had liberated St. John from the Draconis Combine, placing it under the rule of Magnusson and his Free Rasalhague Republic.  Bryan was surprised, as were several of his other officers, to hear that many of the resistance leaders were now officials in the government of St. John.  Harper Meryl, whom Mellert had mentioned earlier, had been a revolutionary and guerrilla warfare specialist during the Ronin Wars.  Now he was the Planetary Administrator, with several other recognized rabble-rousers amongst his political staff.  They had attempted to raise their own militia from the remnants of the revolutionaries that had been the foundation of the Angels' successful liberation attempt, but quickly learned that a standing army for defense and several hundred guerrillas were two completely different things, which is why the contract that the Angels had won was available in the first place.

            Politically, things seemed to be quite stable.  Meryl was a popular man, and the government itself functioned well enough.  While Meryl was the official Administrator, the Senate that was composed of elected representatives could overrule his judgment.  However, since most of the Senators were men and women that had fought alongside him, the chances of them having a severe disagreement were slim.  The portion of the population that believed St. John should have stayed under Draconis Combine rule was generally a well-behaved and quiet minority, so there was little threat of a revolt.  The officers agreed that they would have to keep their eyes on them, though, lest they fall prey to sabotage or other less pleasant forms of protest.

            After the briefing ended conversation turned to how the Angels should go about handling training the St. John militia.  As part of the information packet, the Angels received a listing of St. John's military resources.  They included an old rail version of the Long Tom artillery piece, as well as a couple dozen older tanks and various armored vehicles.  They even had a massive one hundred-ton Behemoth tank and a trio of SYD-21 Seydlitz light aerospace fighters.  The real cream of the crop was two lances of fully functioning BattleMechs, salvaged from the fighting on St. John.  After the war had ended, Magnusson had sent technicians to various worlds to attempt to get whatever equipment they had into fighting shape once more.  Unfortunately he hadn't had the warriors to spare in order to man them.  The mechs ranged from a light Locust and Stinger to a Cyclops and a practically worthless ninety-five ton Banshee.  Most of the mechs were medium weights, with the two assault class machines and a single heavy to accompany them.  Not a serious fighting force, but enough to slow down and harass a push from enemy opposition.

            It was decided that Bumblebee would train the aerospace pilots, teaching them how to work as a team with each other as well as the ground forces.  The Seydlitz's large lasers gave them a hell of a punch for such a tiny fighter, and they were very fast and agile, perfect for strafing attacks.  The three of them wouldn't be able to do much on their own in space, so training them to work in concert with ground forces was the best use of resources.

            The Old Man would handle all the infantry work, training them in everything from crowd control to anti-mech tactics in concert with the Colonel and their own militia MechWarriors.  Shrike would handle armored vehicle training, coordinating with Major Mellert for combined-arms operations along with Packard and his infantry.  All in all, the idea was to make the small militia use everything to its fullest, and that meant working as a team.  After discussing various scenarios with his command staff for nearly another hour, Cochren told them all to go and get some sleep.  By the time they landed on St. John he wanted preliminary training schedules, not just for the militia, but for the Angels themselves as well.  He wasn't about to let their skills deteriorate during garrison, regardless of how small the chance of action was.  

            Chin lay on his bunk in the belly of the Left, gazing at a tattered picture.  The fading print showed an Asian couple with a young child, a boy of no more than six.  Though he'd seen the picture thousands of times, it seemed that every time he looked at it he saw something new, some subtle nuance in his father's expression, or another expression of matronly love in the way his mother touched his shoulder or held his father.  It had distressed him at first to find that he had trouble picturing his parents in his head.  The picture he held was all he had left of them.  Gradually he'd come to accept it as the passage of time.

Chin was Capellan, born and raised with a rich Chinese heritage.  He wore his culture openly and proudly, though many reviled and judged him for his nation of birth.

The Capellan Confederation was a dictatorship, ruled by Maximilian Liao.  When he had finally died - murdered, some said - his younger daughter Romano had taken the throne while her older sister and the true heir had broken away from the Confederation, forming the St. Ives Compact and allying it with the powerful Federated Commonwealth.  Romano, if it was possible, was just as fanatical as her father and perhaps even more paranoid and delusional.  She ruled the Confederation with an iron fist, and squeezed ruthlessly anyone she perceived to be against her.

            Like his parents.

            They had been accused of harboring St. Ives sympathizers; their small restaurant raided one day by Romano's Death Commandos, the Chancellor's personal guards.  They had slain his parents and even several innocent bystanders because of nothing more substantial than a rumor.  They most likely would have killed Chin himself had he been there, but the twelve-year old was at a friend's house, playing.  The very same friend whose parents had paid for Chin to leave the Confederation, relaying him through their underground contacts until he had emerged, safe, in St. Ives.  Sun Chin had grown up with the knowledge that a vile woman had killed his parents, and that the very people that woman had attempted to stamp out had saved his own life.  

He had joined the St. Ives army at eighteen, wanting nothing more than a chance at bringing the Capellan Confederation out from underneath the heel of Romano Liao.  He never got the chance, though, as Candace Liao, Romano's older sister and the leader of the St. Ives Compact, had shown no inclination toward warring on the soil that had spawned her.  Likewise, Romano, even as insane as she was, was not about to tangle with the might of the Federated Commonwealth, which supported the tiny Compact.

So he had resigned after his three-year term, and headed to Outreach to join a mercenary unit.  By now, the fires that had propelled him into the St. Ives military had cooled, though beneath the surface he still burned to see Romano hung.  After the long trip and nearly a year's worth of fruitless searching, Chin had been about to give up.

Then he'd found the Angels.  Unlike most mercenary units, their leadership didn't seem to care that he had no mech of his own.  After a demonstration and research of his background, they had agreed to have him as part of the unit.  He'd been assigned a GHR-5H Grasshopper, the same mech that he'd piloted in the St. Ives military, and had rapidly shown Colonel Cochren and his XO David Mellert what he could do.  

All he wished now was to travel with the Angels and rise to a command position.  Once there, he told himself, he would have shot at Romano Liao.


	4. The Angels: Descent Chapter Four

Chapter Four

With a gut-wrenching snap the universe twisted back upon itself, and spat the Messiah back into realspace at the zenith jump point in the St. John system.  Millions of kilometers away the distant target of the Angels shone brightly, reflecting the light from its nearby sun.  The bridge crew jumped back to work.  One of the sensor operators reached for a bag and emptied his stomach into it, heaving until there was nothing left due to the disorientation of a jump.  The captain of the Messiah, Jaleel Horne, spared a glance for his ill crewman before barking a request for information.

"Well, people, what's out there?"  The other sensor operator sang out first, giving her comrade a moment to recover.

"Nothing on scopes, sir.  A few orbiting satellites, but no ships on passive."

The ill operator coughed, cleared his throat, and in an unsteady voice declared the active sensors clear as well.

Horne grunted.

            "All clear, people."  Heading to the comm panel and pressing a button, he opened a ship-wide frequency.  "Left and Right, you are cleared to disembark."  After shutting off the comm and a short pause, he added, "Bosich, you all right?"

            "Roger that, Messiah, Left is breaking free."  Captain Brown made a quick hand gesture to one of her bridge crew and a massive shudder shook the Overlord as the Messiah released the towering ship from its docking collar.  The egg-shaped vessel floated slowly away from the jumpship, then its maneuvering thrusters engaged, driving it further and rotating it to point the nose of the vessel at St. John.  "Sensors, crank up the passives and let me know what's out there.  Helm, engage at one gravity steady acceleration and give me an ETA."

            "Seventy-seven hours, twenty-one minutes till we hit atmosphere at one G, Captain."  Brown nodded approval.  Just over three days until the Angels descended on their new post.  Gravity returned as the huge main fusion engines of the Left engaged, accelerating the massive ship towards St. John.  No longer needing to grip the rail surrounding the bridge to avoid floating free, she let go and walked over to the comm station.  Years in space left not a tremor in her walk, even after more than a week in null-gravity and a hyperspace jump.

            Picking up the mike and opening a ship-wide frequency, Kerry announced the successful arrival at their destination system and the estimated time of arrival on St. John, ending it with a request for the Colonel to join her on the bridge.

            Bryan headed up the stairway, so steep it may as well have been a ladder, and cranked the handle of the heavy door that sealed the passageway from the bridge.  It turned easily, quietly, and he shoved the door open to reveal a bridge crew busily going about their work.  Looking at a viewscreen in one bank of sensors, he could see the Angel's jumpship.  

The Messiah, Bryan knew, would already be unfurling its solar sail, the two kilometer-wide black web that collected solar energy from the system's sun and stored it in the jumpship's batteries for later use.  The sun in the St. John system would charge the Messiah's batteries in about six days, which meant that the Angels were stuck here at least that long.  

"Not that I planned on leaving so soon anyway," he muttered under his breath, once again shaking off the chill that Perry Quince had instilled in him.

"What was that, Sir?"

Taken from his reverie by the familiar voice, Cochren stepped fully onto the bridge and closed the bulkhead door behind him.  "Nothing, Captain.  I'm assuming you called me so that we can announce our arrival?"  Brown nodded an affirmative, following it up with a hand swept toward an open seat at the communications console.  

"Just press 'send' when you're done.  The time delay means it'll be at least a half hour before we get a response, since St. John doesn't have a laser comm facility."  Using radio signals was still the most reliable and widespread form of long-range communication, but it wasn't without its drawbacks, chief of which was its speed.  Over long distances such as the millions of kilometers the Left had to cover, it took radio signals several minutes to reach their destination.  Using lasers to beam communications back and forth was both much quicker and more secure, but the Left didn't carry the equipment necessary to transmit that far, nor was St. John capable of receiving them.  The Messiah did, however, and normally the communications would be routed through it.

Flashing a grin at the big woman, Cochren turned to the console.  "I have done this before, you know."  She shrugged.

"Groundpounders tend to forget the more intricate things in life when they're not busy blowing them up.  Sir."  Bryan laughed, then hit the record button on the console after pulling the microphone towards him.

"Administrator Harper Meryl and members of St. John's Senate, this is Colonel Bryan Cochren of the Angels mercenary regiment.  According to a contract agreed to by my staff and duly appointed representatives of the Free Rasalhague Republic, ratified by the Mercenary Review and Bonding Commission, we are your garrison force for the next six months.  We request permission to land and will break atmosphere in seventy-seven hours.  Please acknowledge."  Releasing the record button, the Colonel pressed send and leaned back a bit.

"And now we wait.  I'll be in the wardroom, Kerry."  Captain Brown nodded absently, absorbed in some readout or another, then turned to snap a quick salute at his back as Bryan left.

Cochren found Quince, Neal, and Mellert all sitting at a table in the wardroom, which pulled double duty as the officer's mess in the cramped confines of a space-going vessel.  Walking over to the coffee maker, he pulled away the velcro strap that held down the carafe in zero-g.  Grabbing a zero-g liquid pack, he depressed the plunger and filled up on the steaming coffee.  With the Left under thrust, there was gravity for the crew to walk around and pour coffee, but not having open containers kept messes down should the dropship lose power.

Neal looked up from his own vessel of coffee.  "Damn, sir, but it'll be nice to actually do something again.  We sat on Outreach for a sight too long in my book."  Quince nodded absently, still with the look of someone who expected the worst.

"No doubt," Mellert said.  "And to go back to St. John for our return to active duty is quite the treat.  From the manifest that Leslie gave me on the indig military forces, it sounds like they're on their way to having a well-equipped fighting force."  He paused and sucked a mouthful of coffee from the bag he held.  "Once properly trained, of course."

Raising one eyebrow slightly, Cochren eyed his XO.  "You do have your training schedule worked out, yes?"  Mellert would be handling the combined arms operations between St. John's two mech lances and their company of mixed armor.  The bigger man nodded.

"Of course, sir.  Major Shrike and I will have them whipped into shape in no time.  Patsy's going to begin working with us 'mudbugs' about a month into her own training schedule to get the tankers and Mechjocks used to working with air cover as well - not that a triplet of Seydlitz's are going to do much good."

Sitting down at the table with his three officers, the Colonel sighed.  "Oh, I'm sure Bumblebee'll come up with some use for them.  She's got quite a noggin for tactics."  Leaning back, he sucked down some of the steaming liquid and almost gagged.  "Damn it, Dave, I've told you you're not allowed to make the coffee anymore how many times?  I wouldn't need the bag even in zero-g, this sludge is so thick."

Major Mellert winked.  "Just making sure you're awake, Colonel, sir."  Bryan hit him in the face with a crumpled up napkin.

Three days later, everyone sat strapped into jumpseats or cockpits as the pair of dropships hit St. John's atmosphere.  The response from Meryl and the Senate had been polite, and carefully enthusiastic.  The Free Rasalhague Republic as a whole wasn't too keen on mercenaries, but St. John's people knew very well who the Angel's were, and there was no place outside of Outreach to turn in order to find veteran warriors to train a defense force.  The Angels were given their clearance to land at the spaceport in Kittridge, the capital city of St. John and seat of its government, as well as directions to the barracks they would occupy during their stay, which were a couple kilometers outside the city proper.  Later that evening he and his officers were to attend a dinner with the Council.  Bumblebee and her squadron were out and about, escorting the dropships into their landing zone.  

Captains Brown and Griegorovich landed the Left and Right in perfect harmony, the massive fusion engines of the Overlord-class ships blackening the tarmac underneath them and the huge landing legs of the egg-shaped vessels flexing and thousands of tons settled onto them.  The engines shut off, and the loudest of the noises the dropships made stopped.  

Snugged into his Victor's cockpit, Colonel Cochren could still hear the various pings and snaps as the Left's systems shut down.  Flipping on his radio, he first asked Kerry to open the huge mechbay doors to allow the Angel's mechs to exit the belly of the ship.

"Alright Angels," he said into the regimental frequency, "welcome to your new home.  Remember to clean up after yourselves and never, ever leave the toilet seat up.  Debark order is Command Lance first, then in company order.  Infantry next, then armor.  Full parade mode, Angels, as we head to the barracks.  Mellert, make sure I don't get lost on the way."  The Angels had been given directions to their new home via radio broadcasts as they neared the planet.  Bryan was pleased to note that everyone on the Council of St. John seemed genuinely happy to have them there.

"No problem, sir."

Smiling broadly, Cochren worked the controls of his eighty-ton metal monster and stepped from the shadows of the mechbay and into the light of the doorway before descending the ramp to the spaceport tarmac below.  A crowd of citizens lined the streets to welcome the mercenaries, and the mechs were certainly a sigh to behold.  The Colonel's Victor, first onto the ferrocrete, was painted a gleaming white with golden highlights, with the Angels insignia, a swooping archangel with a flaming broadsword in hand, painted on the left thigh.  The name "Gabriel" was stenciled in underneath the insignia.  Next came the beautiful Victor's antithesis, a polished black AS7-D Atlas with a human skeleton painted on it.  Major Mellert's custom paint job was done in infrared-reflective paint, giving the menacing illusion of a massive walking skeleton under visual or IR scanners.  The leering skull painted over its head twisted left and right, scanning the crowd.  The assault mech was followed by a mech decorated in almost a bizarre fashion as the Major's machine.  Graham Jordan's Cyclops followed, the single large 'eye' in its head painted to look just like a huge, bright blue woman's eye, complete with long lashes and makeup.  Jordan had a weird sense of humor.  Last out of the dropship came Sun Chin in his Grasshopper, a newfound spring in his step at being named to the Command Lance.  His 'mech was easily the most inconspicuous of the four in standard forest camouflage.

The procession drug out nearly four kilometers, as forty mechs, over a battalion of armor, and platoon after platoon of infantry poured out of the huge ships.  People lined almost the entire procession route, nearly eight clicks.  Mothers and fathers held up their children as the BattleMechs walked by, giving them a better view.  The variety of tanks and other vehicles after the mechs received almost as much admiration, and the booming passage of a half-dozen aerospace fighters streaking by overhead in perfect formation brought a cheer from the citizens before they circled again to land.  Bryan couldn't help but smile ear to ear as he stalked along the pre-planned route.  Not many of the roads in the city could take the hammering footfalls of a one hundred ton BattleMech, so they had been directed which turns to take.  

After ten minutes he was outside the city proper and another five landed him at the front gates to the barracks.  With mild surprise he noted a group of perhaps fifty protesters arrayed outside the fence.  They weren't blocking the route in, nor did they appear to be violent or even particularly zealous, so he waited patiently for the gates to open before walking the mech inside.  He radioed Mellert on the Command Lance frequency.

"Dave, make sure everyone gets set up in here all right, and I want a lance on guard at all times, so pick one and create a rotation."

"Got it," came his XO's reply as Cochren found a berth in the huge warehouse that would store the Angel's military vehicles while on planet.  Cochren finished shutting down the fusion reactor in his behemoth and crawled from the cockpit before heading down the chain ladder to the ground.  He was treated to the same sight that the people of St. John had been once on foot, watching the BattleMechs under his command file into the barracks.  Seeing the huge skeleton-motif Atlas standing at the fifteen-meter tall doors directing traffic with sweeping arm gestures elicited a laugh from the Colonel, and he began walking back to the gates of the barracks.  He was still a hundred meters or so from the gigantic doorway when he saw Delta Lance of Second Company break off and begin a patrol around the inside of the barrack grounds, each of the four mechs heading in different directions.  By the time he made it to within shouting distance of the front gates, the Angel's armor assets were rolling through.  Darting in between a Demolisher and Rommel tank that were near the end of the column, he crossed the gate and made his way over to the demonstrators.  

Now that he paid a little more attention, he realized that the protesters were holding generic placards and not the more violent and personal ones he'd feared.  Most of them bore writing such as "Mercenaries Go Home" and "We Don't Need Help" and things along those lines.  They were well behaved, though, for which he was profoundly thankful.  Crowd-control on the first day here would be a very bad public relations move.  Only a few of them shouted anything, most were watching with interest and waving their banners at the passing column.  A couple protesters near the front of the group noticed him coming and shushed their compatriots.  He knew he wasn't exactly a presentable diplomat at the moment, still dressed only in his cooling vet and shorts, but he wanted to talk to these people.

He stepped within ten feet of the group and stopped before nodding.  "Hello, I'm Bryan."  He decided to omit his rank in hopes of keeping this at a familiar and thus more easygoing level.  It worked.  An older man, perhaps fifty, holding a sign proclaiming "St. John Can Defend Itself!" glanced around before stepping forward.

"The name's Reese, Mister.  Jonathan Reese."

Cochren smiled.  "Well, Mr. Reese, I was wondering if you'd tell me what this is all about."

"Pretty much what the signs say, merc -"

"You can call me Bryan, Mr. Reese."

"Bryan, then.  Pretty much what the signs say.  We don't need or want your mercenaries on the planet.  We won our independence from the Draconis Combine and we can keep it."

"Are you aware what resources the Free Rasalhague Republic has allocated to your defense, Mr. Reese?"

"We have mechs."  A chorus of cheers and agreements from the crowd behind him forced Cochren to wait for silence again.

"More precisely, Mr. Reese, you have eight BattleMechs, ranging in size from a twenty-ton Locust to a ninety-five ton Banshee.  However, you have only one pilot for these eight machines that has any experience at all.  In addition to that, you have three light aerospace fighters and a couple companies of older model armor.  Not exactly a potent fighting force."  A rising tide of disgruntled disagreement began to flow from the protesters.  Cochren held up his hand.  "The FRR recognizes that and is interested in _making_ them a potent fighting force, which is exactly why my men and women are here.  Allow me to formally introduce myself.  Colonel Bryan Cochren of the Angels mercenary regiment.  I don't know if any of you were there, but we fought the Draconis Combine to liberate this world not too long ago, and it's a pleasure to be back."  

He stepped forward and held out his hand.  Reese, looking slightly taken aback, took it and shook his hand.  "Now, obviously we're just moving in, but why don't we go rustle up some coffee and talk things over a little bit so you don't get the wrong idea about why we're here."

Several hours later, Cochren was wandering around the Angel's new home, still getting a feel for where everything was located.  After the powwow with the protesters, he had commandeered a hoverjeep and toured the outer grounds.  The barracks were laid out in a logical and easily defensible manner, something the tactician in him appreciated.  Being outside his mech, he had no way to communicate with the rest of his staff, but he knew his XO to be a capable commander in his absence.  No doubt Dave had already set up the guard rotation and begun assigning berths to everyone, perhaps even picked out where the wardroom would be…which quite possibly was the very room he'd invited Mr. Reese and some of his compatriots into for a chat.  While he didn't particularly care for diplomacy, the Colonel was pretty good at it and their chat had gone quite well.  He had explained the purpose for the Angel's visit here and even engaged in a round of "Do you know…" and "Do you remember…" with them, winning their respect.  They still weren't completely comfortable with a force the size of the Angels being on planet, at least one not part of the Royal Kungesarme.

Turning a corner in the office portion of the main barracks building, he almost ran straight into his wife and Bumblebee.

"Where have you been?" his wife asked.  Patsy at least saluted first before nodding in agreement to the question.

"Nice to see you, too, Nichole.  I had a little meeting with the protesters from out front.  Wanted to clear the air and make sure we only have bad blood coming from across the border, not across the fence."

"That was you, sir?  They were taking odds on whether or not you made the new guy, Chin, go talk to them."

"He's Capellan, Bee, not a Drac.  Chinese versus Japanese.  He's just as much an outsider as you or I here."  She just nodded, grinning.  "Anyways, where is everyone?  Did Dave pick out quarters for the officers and a wardroom, etc., yet?"

"Yes, dear.  We've just been trying to find you for the past hour to show you.  One of the armor jockeys reported you taking a jeep, then Quix said he thought he saw you running around the grounds in one while he was stumping around in his Enforcer, but no one was sure.  Come on, we'll show you."

"Lead on, my lovely ladies, lead on."

The trio completed a tour of the office portion of the barracks.  Bryan was surprised to find an even larger room than the one he'd used that Mellert had commandeered as the officer's mess and wardroom.  His wife and aerospace commander led him to hallway lined with small private apartments for the officers, including a reasonably sized room for him and Nichole.  He found Dave and Jordan in the communications room, buried underground in the middle of the facility for security reasons.  The pair glanced up, then straightened and saluted.  

"Sir," Jordan said.  "This gear's actually pretty good.  No laser comm here, but they've got good encryption routines and a filter that can ta -"  Cochren held up a hand.

"Jordan, you know I don't care how you alert the troops, just that you do.  You start that technobabble with me again and I'll just get lost as usual.  Is there anything that's not here that you think we need?"

"I'll dive in a little deeper as the day goes on, sir, and get back to you.  Right now the Major and I were just getting all the regimental frequencies and encryption codes progra -"

"Jordan, what did I just tell you?"

"Yes, sir."  He turned back to the computer console, trying hard not to smile.  In his Cyclops or out, Jordan was a technophile through and through.

"Stop smirking, Major."

"Yes, sir," his XO replied, but he didn't stop grinning ear to ear.  He enjoyed ribbing his colonel about his lack of interest and expertise in mundane technical matters.  Bryan sighed in exasperation.

"I don't know why I put up with this crap."

"Because God is love, sir, and He forgives if we only repent of ou -"

"Shut up, Dave."


	5. The Angels: Descent Chapter Five

Chapter Five

            Cochren spent another hour or so in the communications room with Mellert and Jordan, making sure he had all the frequencies memorized and listening to Graham ooh and ahh every time he found some new capability of the system.  Bryan just had to smile and shake his head, he truly had assembled an eccentric team of officers.  Perry was definitely the straight shooter of the bunch.  He'd probably lump his wife in there as well, though he knew better than to tell her that.  When late afternoon arrived he announced that it was time for Jordan to get everyone back into the barn so that the officers could get ready for their meeting with St. John's Council.  That being done, he meandered back to the stateroom he and Nichole occupied and pulled out his dress uniform.

            The uniforms were relatively new, Bryan having had them created only a couple years ago when the Angels were first listed as a regiment with the Mercenary Review and Bonding Commission.  Pure white, they gleamed in any light.  Golden piping rode the shoulders and down to the cuffs of the jacket, as well as down the outside of the pants.  The Angels' insignia sat high on the left breast, and below that rode the uniform owner's rank and name.  The higher the rank, the broader the flames spread out from the archangel's sword in the insignia.  Bryan's flames covered the majority of the jacket, leaving only the hem and right arm from the elbow down still the original white.  His right arm was decorated with patches from unit actions he'd taken part in, starting with the kanji character for 'ronin' and with a stylized '39' near the elbow.  He had just finished lacing up his polished dress boots when the door opened and his wife strode in.  She paused after closing the door and gave him a once over, smiling.

            "You know, you clean up pretty nice when you try."

            "Keep laughing, and the woman's dress uniform will be a short skirt, blazer, and a tie."

            Now she laughed, then walked over and gave him a kiss.  Stepping back, she smoothed imagined wrinkles from his jacket.  "You look wonderful, dear."

            "As will you, so go get changed.  We need to get over there soon and you know Patsy will be late, she always is."

            "Yes, Bryan, us women always holding up the pack.  Go get everyone rounded up, I'll meet you at the front doors of the office section.  Graham's said that the Council's got a limo waiting for us there already."

            "Alright."  He leaned forward and gave her a kiss.  "I love you, Nichole.  Hurry up, and make sure you drag Patsy out of her room in time for us to get there.  I want at least one non-'Mech officer present, and Shrike and the Old Man flat out refuse to be drug to any 'pampered politician' gatherings."  He turned and strode out of the room to gather his XO, communications officer, and company commanders.  After several minutes of searching turned up only Quix, apparently wandering aimlessly and plucking at his dress jacket in an annoyed fashion, the pair went out to where the limousine was waiting and found everyone else assembled there already.

            "_I'm_ going to make us late, sir?" Patsy asked with a raised eyebrow.

            "Shush, Bee, just get in."  Everyone chuckled.

            The trip from the barracks took about twenty minutes, as the limo wound it's way back into the city and then through the tail end of rush hour traffic.  Nichole and Patsy whiled away their time straightening the men's jackets and pleats.  Quince endured it stoically, as he had the least amount of prepping to be done, while Mellert and Neal shot Cochren vicious glances over the women's shoulders as they were prodded and admonished for non-existent wrinkles in their uniforms.  Graham just laughed as the diminutive Richards tugged at his.  The limo pulled up in front of the Senate Building and the seven Angels stepped out and into the waning sunlight of evening time.  Once reassembled, they mounted the steps of the building, Cochren in the lead, with Mellert at his right and Jordan to his left.  Perry and Quix came next, followed by Nichole and Patsy.  They made quite a fashionable entourage, with flames covering their torsos and gleaming white pants.  Most of them had been with the Angels since the beginning, with only Graham Jordan not having fought on St. John in the Ronin Wars.  When they reached the top, the door swung open and a young, suit-clad official addressed them.

            "Colonel Cochren?"  Bryan nodded.  "You and your officers are expected.  Please come in, then follow me."  From the stiff, formal speech and the way the young man's brown eyes narrowed as he looked them over, Bryan guessed that this guy was one of the populace none too pleased with his unit's return.  The man held the door for the mercenaries, then let it close before heading down a corridor to the left.  The Angels followed in silence until the fellow stopped in front of a double set of large, wooden doors.  "Wait here a moment while I announce you."

            "Thank you."  The young man's lip twitched, then he went into the closed room.  A few moments later he emerged.

            "You may go in, Colonel."  He held the door open and beckoned them in.  As they entered, the council chamber spread out before them, shaped like a piece of pie with the door at the narrow end.  The entire chamber was richly done with woods of different shades, and rows of empty seating lined the ever-widening room.  After the public seating stopped, there was a slightly raised dais with a podium and microphone attached to it.  At the far end was a semi-circular table, higher than the dais, with seven people seated at it.  In the middle, directly in front of the Angels, a man sat.  As they approached, he stood.  Bryan guessed his age to be roughly equal to his own.  His hair had grayed significantly since he'd last seen him, but Bryan could still recognize the rugged face of Harper Meryl, former freedom fighter and now Planetary Administrator of St. John.  He thought he recognized a few of the Senators to each side of him as well, but fifteen years was a long time for memory to get shady.

            "Please, Colonel Cochren, you and your officers may step up on the dais."  He waited a moment while they did so, Bryan taking the spot behind the podium and his officers arraying to each side, matching the Council.  Meryl sat back down.  "I am Planetary Administrator Harper Meryl.  These are Senators Koeling, Bjorn, Kyuss, Jameson, Jorgensson, and Staff."  He indicated each in turn, then eyed Cochren expectantly.

            Leaning slightly forward, Bryan spoke into the microphone.  "Good evening, Administrator, Senators."  He nodded at each.  "I present the ranking officers of the Angels.  Major David Mellert, my executive officer.  Captains Perry Quince, Quix Neal, and Nichole Cochren, my company commanders.  On the left is Patsy Richards, commander of our aerospace squadron, and finally Lieutenant Graham Jordan, my communications officer.  May I say that we're quite happy being able to return to St. John after all these years?"

            Meryl smiled.  "As you know, Colonel, this meeting is more of a formality than anything else.  It is more of a chance for us to get acquainted, or reacquainted, with you and your officers.  I see that the Angels have grown quite a bit since you last visited us."

            "You as well, Administrator."  He paused, considering just how to continue, then decided to plunge on in a familiar manner.  "The last time I remember seeing you, you were covered in mud, holding an autorifle, and cheering at retreating Kuritan dropships."

            "And your Lancelot was more holes than armor and missing its right arm, Colonel.  I cannot tell you how happy I was to hear that the mercenaries hired to garrison our world were the same that had once fought beside us.  Too many people in Rasalhague have forgotten that not all or even most mercenaries are morally inept and corrupted money-grubbers.  Why don't you give us a little information on your basic plans for our world and militia and we'll let you get back to base, eh?"

            Three weeks later, Kelly 'Old Man' Packard was standing in front of a group of what he could only describe to himself as children.  The St. John Militia 1st Infantry Regiment was really more of a hopeful wish at this point, even with news of the Angels being involved in the training upping the recruitment rates.  He stood on the edge of a fairly large clearing in the woods to the east of the city, with the sun at his back.  It really was a beautiful world this time of year.  Add to that his discovery that Ann Gregory did indeed still live in Port Lucent and was quite happy to see him, and life was good.  

Today was to be a practical demonstration.  He had asked that the entire infantry arm of the Militia be present for this, though in actuality he expected less than ten percent to be trained in what he was about to show them.  Arrayed before him were nearly two full battalions of troops, of which he hoped to cull two platoons worth for training in anti-mech tactics.  The Master Sergeant had never felt the need for a microphone to address troops before, and today was no exception.

"All right, listen up!" he bellowed in his best drill sergeant voice.  "Today you're going to get a little demonstration on what poor bloody infantry can do to a BattleMech when properly equipped, trained, and motivated!"  He spoke softly into a two-way comm. Unit clipped to his lapel.  An enormous crash from the woods behind him as a tree toppled out of the way of a Shadow Hawk painted in forest camouflage that had been kneeling, hidden, in the trees.  The fifty-five ton machine stepped from the forest, knocking aside a few more small trees on the way.  "That," he continued, rising his voice again, "should be all the motivation you need!"  He pointed at the mech, which was now slowly stalking towards the assemblage.  Packard gave them credit, they didn't break and run, even though a couple looked like they wanted to.  He clicked a button on the radio clipped to his belt, then spoke into his lapel again.  "Observe!" he said to the Militia.

From cover to the troops' right burst two figures, wearing fatigues and carrying a small satchel perhaps a foot square and a few inches thick and an odd pole of some sort about a meter long.  The pair ran for all they were worth, coming in from the Shadow Hawk's left side.  They crossed the twenty meters to the Shadow Hawk quickly, and the MechWarrior didn't notice them until the last second.  The duo came within a few meters of the mech's massive legs, then planted the end of the rod they carried.  Two muffled whumps sounded as the small adhesive-covered ball in the tube fired, hitting the mech in the chest and left hip.  Immediately the lines began to retract, dragging the two infantrymen up the mech.  The Shadow Hawk swatted at them with its arms, succeeding in connecting with one's line and sending the PBI flying before hitting the ground, rolling, and taking off for the cover of the trees again.

His compatriot was luckier, ascending the line just high enough to shove the satchel she carried into the space between the Shadow Hawk's armored knee plate and the knee actuator itself.  Leaping off, she tugged the ripcord free, setting a four second fuse on the explosive package and ran for the trees herself.  The blast was nothing special, most of it expending its energy into the Shadow Hawk's joint, destroying the actuator there.  When it tried to take a step toward the retreating woman, the joint bent the wrong way when the left foot was planted.  The scream of tortured metal sounded across the clearing and the mech toppled onto its left side.  The Militia suddenly wondered just how staged this demonstration was, and immediately five more infantrymen popped up from around the edge of the clearing.  Four smoke contrails of shoulder-mounted SRMs and the glaring artificial lightning of a man-pack PPC stabbed into the downed mech's head, followed by flashy explosions.

Suddenly laughter boomed over the mech's external speakers.  "Kelly, am I dead yet?"

"Yes, Quix, you are, so sit tight and be quiet."  A ripple of laughter wound through the Militia.

"You didn't tell me you were going to use a real satchel charge.  I can't believe God let you do that to my baby!"

"Just be happy the PPC and SRMs were training rounds."

"Jackass."  Now the infantry roared with delight.  Packard turned back to the assembled PBIs.

"What you just witnessed is not a stroke of luck or something that can only nail inexperienced MechJocks.  Captain Neal over there," he gestured at the Shadow Hawk, which had rolled onto its back and sat up, "in his broken tin man, happens to be a company commander."  The Shadow Hawk made a somewhat slow but obscene gesture at him, eliciting more laughter.  "One thing you need is equipment.  The ascension rods you saw are available at virtually any well-stocked sporting goods store.  They're used by rock climbers, and are good for thirty meters of line, more that enough to scale even the biggest mech.  The satchel charges are a little bit harder to come by, but we're working on that.  I mentioned that the sight of a mech should supply all the motivation you need.  What's lacking is training.  Over the next couple weeks I'll be pulling those of you that I think have got what it takes and forming a couple platoons of anti-mech infantry.  Don't think that they get to have all the fun though, the rest of you will get other forms of specialized training.  When we're done with you, every single one of you will have a job to do, one that you're proud of, and one that benefits the team – the infantry is NOT a collection of one-man armies.  Now, who wants to volunteer for anti-mech duty?"

Kelly smiled at the sea of hands.

            The next day Patsy "Bumblebee" Richards was standing at the front of the pilot ready room.  The one thing that had irked her about the barracks that were provided for the Angels was that the runway and hanger for her fighters was nearly two kilometers from the barracks in which she slept.  Her wingman, Paul Johnston, callsign "Loco", lounged against the wall to her left.  He was the newest addition to the Angel's Wings, and his nickname came about both for his bizarre personality and extreme pleasure at being assigned a Lucifer, a maligned fighter design if there ever was one.  His broad-rim hat was pulled low over his eyes, long bland hair spilled out underneath it, and somewhere he had picked up a stalk of grass that was hanging from his lips.  He eyed the rest of the room's occupants with amused interest.

            Patsy cleared her throat before addressing the three militia pilots.  The rest of the Angels' pilots were seated in the rear of the room.  "I'm Captain Patsy Richards.  You can all call me Bumblebee.  This here is Loco – you'll find out why.  I'll ask you all to ignore anything he tells you because it will most likely get you killed, albeit in a flashy manner."

            "Hey, now…"

"Back there are Raptor, Air Raid, Lightshow, and Stoop.  We'll all get to know each other real well over the next few months, so for now callsigns will do.  Since this is the first time we've all met, I'll ask each one of you to introduce yourselves, give your callsign, and any experience you have."  She pointed at the nearest pilot, a young woman in her late twenties with long brown hair, who stood and snapped a smart salute.  

            "Lojtnant Jamie Roulf, 'Gymnast'.  Forty-three hours logged in the Seydlitz, formerly an acrobatic pilot with the Stars Fantasy Fliers."  Patsy groaned inwardly.  _The Lieutenant only has forty-three hours logged?_  It also surprised her because she had thought that the commander of the three fighters would have been the older man at the opposite end.  On the outside, she smiled and indicated Gymnast to sit down, then gestured for the pilot next to her to stand up.

            "Korpral Tor Newmark, no callsign.  Umm…I have twenty-one hours in the Seydlitz and another forty-six in the simulator."  The young man looked barely old enough to shave, and he brushed his lanky hair out of his eyes several times just during his short speech.

            "Korpral Adam Michaelson, 'Beamer'.  The Seydlitz I pilot is mine.  I have eleven years in the cockpit, mostly with Crater's Cobras.  I came back home with the bird when my family told me that they were trying to get an honest to God militia started here.  I'm from St. John originally, though I was off planet for the past twelve years or so."  Bumblebee nodded.

            "Good, good.  Lojtnant, how much time have you logged in the air together so far?"

            "Well…Korpral Newmark and I have about ten hours of formation flying and basic maneuvers in, but we haven't flown with Korpral Michaelson yet, he just arrived on planet two months ago and his application to the Militia was only approved a few days ago."  Loco tugged his brim lower to hide the smirk on his face.

            Patsy hung her head for a moment, then straightened up.  "Well, that changes today.  By the end of the week we'll have doubled your cockpit times.  Raptor will be handling ground attack stratagems with the three of you, while I'll take care of air superiority and space combat – you do have at least some space time in, yes?"

            The older militiaman nodded, but the other two shook their heads.  "Only in the simulator, sir," Roulf replied.

            "Okay, we'll center on aerial maneuvers and ground attack for now then.  We'll do low-risk stuff in space in a couple weeks.  Are the three of you listed as a reinforced lance, or two?"

            "One lance, sir."

            "Good.  You may not like it, but given that you're inexperienced, you should be thankful to have someone with more time in the saddle like Korpral Michaelson to watch your backs.  Go get suited up, we're going to put you through basic paces today.  It may be a little weird to begin with having a third fighter attached to your lance, Lojtnant, so I suggest for now you concentrate on coordinating yourself and Mr. Newmark.  I'm sure Michaelson will be able to keep up with you as you break in."

            Snug in the cockpit of her Shilone aerospace fighter, Patsy truly felt alive.  Her squadron was flying level at angels twelve, the militia trio of light Seydlitz fighters were about two thousand feet below, practicing different formations.  Michaelson was doing a flawless job integrating himself into the various arrays, often lagging just behind and to the left of the Lojtnant, like a mother bird watching over her children's first flight.  A quick glance to her right showed her own wingman gleefully waving at her, flying perfectly level and perhaps ten scant meters off her right wing – upside down.

            "Loco, can we at least let them get a little experience before we teach them bad habits?"

            "Bee, y'all're no fun at all."

            "Loco, now." 

            "Aww, fine…wooooooohoooooooooo!"  The Lucifer pulled up, paradoxically towards the ground, and Bee twisted to watch as Loco pulled a complete loop, lit the burners to catch up, and then flipped upright at the last second as he pulled alongside his wingman and captain.  Bee opened the communications line to the militia pilots.

            "Lojtnant, execute a scissors maneuver for me, you cross front, then Immelman to reverse.  Keep it as tight as you can."

            "Yes, Captain."  The leading pair of Seydlitzes broke away from each other and widened the gap to nearly a kilometer before reversing.  Roulf's fighter cut across the bow of Newmark's, who flashed by close enough to get jounced by his Lojtnant's jetwash.  Michaelson, however, pulled up, igniting the afterburners on his tiny fighter and climbing a comparable distance before inversing and diving back towards the pair, who had both corrected to come alongside one another before hauling back on the sticks and reversing direction, then flipping to level out again.  The third Seydlitz pulled up as well, but as he was already inverted he mimicked Loco's earlier move, then punched his burners again to catch up.

            "Excellent flying, all of you.  Now for something a little more fun.  Weve got another half hour or so of fuel before we have to head back for the barn.  Try to evade one of my lances and put yourselves on the attack.  No weapons, just flying skill.  Got it?"  A trio of affirmations responded.  "Good.  Lightshow, Stoop?  Get 'em."


	6. The Angels: Descent Chapter Six

Chapter Six

            Cochren sat at his desk in the office he'd taken nearly five months ago, going over readiness reports for both the Angels and the newly formed St. John Militia.  "Where did all the time go?" he wondered idly to himself.  The Angel's initial contract with the Free Rasalhague Republic was nearly complete.  There had been no action on the planet other than exercises, which was both a blessing and a curse.  On one hand lack of action dulled senses and skills, but on the other, well, nobody in their right mind enjoys combat.

            The protesters had, for the most part, left the Angels alone.  After his talk with Reese, it seemed word of it had spread.  Just the fact that he had even bothered to come and talk to them personally had quelled much of the bad blood.  As time went on and the Angels spent their money on planet, patronizing local stores and restaurants and being well behaved, word of that spread as well.  Then there were the members of the Militia, who went home each day and talked about what they'd done that day with the mercenaries, fostering more good will.

            The training regimen that he and his officers had created for the Militia had done wonders in a short time.  The ranks had swelled after his Angels made planetfall.  Most of the new recruits had simply been placed in the infantry platoons, but a few had shown enough promise to become tankers and even MechWarriors with enough training.  Nothing could substitute experience, which was the point of the exercises.  

In fact, he was supposed to go and monitor an exercise this afternoon.  Putting down the paperwork and swiveling to look outside, he mused about what a beautiful day it was, sunny and warm.  The telecomm on his desk warbled, and he spun around twice before punching the button.

"Cochren here."

"Colonel, this is Jordan.  Major Mellert says they are almost ready to begin."

"Thanks, Jordan.  Tell him I'll be out on the field in twenty minutes or so. Is he in Death or groundpounding it?"

"The Major's riding high today, sir."

"Excellent.  I'll hop in Gabriel, then."

"I'll let him know, sir."

"Good.  God out."  He severed the connection before standing and stretching.  He'd been sitting in that damned chair for over five hours already today.  Time to have a little fun.  He peeked out the door to make sure no one was in the corridor before sprinting off towards the MechBay where his Victor was berthed.  After all, it wouldn't do for anyone to see the Colonel running along the hallway like a child in a neighborhood race.

Two minutes of running put Bryan in the MechBay before his fourteen-meter tall VTR-9B Victor assault mech.  The sight never failed to give him pause.  Almost half of the Angels' forty BattleMechs were out of the bay currently, either for the exercise or on patrol.  Sun Chin's Grasshopper was missing, but Jordan's oddly painted Cyclops was to Gabriel's right, after the empty stall that normally housed the black Atlas piloted by his XO.  He quickly stripped down to shorts and scrambled up the chain ladder towards the cockpit of his mech, earning several grins and odd looks from the technicians working over a few of the regiment's machines.

When he reached the top of the ladder, Cochren slapped the button that would retract it into a small storage space in the shoulder of the mech.  Slipping into the cockpit, he pulled the hatch shut and twisted the handle, sealing it.  The Victor's life support systems would provide him with air until he opened the hatch again.  Turning in the cramped space, he pulled his cooling vest off of the command couch and shrugged the heavy garment on.  Layers of ballistic cloth with coolant lines sandwiched in-between, it was the only thing that would keep his body cool enough during combat for him to stay conscious.  Once he had that on, he settled into the couch and plugged the coolant line into a jack to the right of his throne.  Reaching out, he flipped the switches to begin the start-up sequence on the mech.  The thrum of the fusion reactor buried within the Victor's breast made him give a whoop of joy.  He never felt as alive as he did when nestled in the cockpit of his BattleMech.

As more and more systems reached standby status, Bryan reached up and behind him and pulled down his neurohelmet from its shelf.  He settled the heavy helmet onto his shoulders, feeling the sensor patches contact his temples securely.  The neurohelmet transmitted his own sense of balance to the mech's enormous gyroscope, keeping it upright during movement.  With the helmet on, he was ready to bring the machine up to full power.  He flipped a master switch from Standby to On and felt a brief wave of vertigo as the neurohelmet matched his brainwaves with those stored in the computer, verifying his identity.  There were still other checks, though, and the computer's soft female voice calmly asked, "Final voice code, please?"

"In the beginning, God created the Angels, and he knew that they were the best."  Everything in the cockpit lit up and the thrum of the reactor became a mild roar as the computer allowed full power to the Victor's systems, matching both his voice patterns and the phrase itself.  Grinning like a schoolboy, he took first one step, then another, guiding the eighty-ton machine out of the MechBay.  He turned on the radio, switching to the regimental Command Lance frequency.

"God's online.  Where are you guys today, Mellert?"

A short crackle of static was followed by the cheery voice of his XO.  Of course, he'd been out running around in Death, his Atlas, all day while Bryan had been stuck reviewing paperwork.  "Nice of you to join us, sir.  We're five klicks northeast of the barracks bearing zero-five-zero.  We'll start when you get here."

"Roger that, ETA five minutes.  God out."  Swinging around to the bearing provided, he throttled up to run, Gabriel's legs pumping fast enough to propel the machine at well over sixty kilometers per hour.  As he neared the fence on the west side of the barrack grounds, his radio squawked as the MechWarrior on guard there hailed him.  

"Sir, we'd really appreciate it if you would use the gate like everyone else."

Still running straight at the five meter tall fence, Cochren had just enough time to respond, "Gates are for those who take orders, Lieutenant, not the one that gives them!"  Still laughing, he took his feet off the foot pedals and stabbed them down onto the pegs to the outside of each, igniting the enormous jump jets in Gabriel's legs and back.  The assault mech lifted into the air and soared over the fence on three jets of silver fire.  If ever the mech looked like an avenging angel, it was then.  Feathering the jets for a soft landing, he hit the ground running.

"Damn, Dave, I've known you to plan some brutal exercises, but this is a new low," Bryan said over the mech to mech frequency he had set up with his executive officer.

"What?  The armor ambush?  You're just still mad about the last time I did that to you."  Mellert had actually had nothing to do with this exercise's planning and execution, he was simply acting as the judge and referee, trudging around in Death, his Atlas.  Similar to the last time they had done a large scale exercise, though, two Demolisher tanks had lain in ambush, rendering the Militia Cyclops assault mech so much scrap in a single salvo.  Watching the battle, though, that wasn't what Bryan was referring to now.

"Not that, Dave.  I meant setting Chin on those poor Militia MechWarriors.  He's tearing them up."  Chin had already claimed both the Militia's light mechs, a Stinger and a Locust, along with bowling over a medium-weight Wolverine.  As he spoke, the Grasshopper sailed over the head of the Militia's Banshee, which had fired its particle projector cannon and popgun autocannon under the jumping mech.  Chin's heavy machine landed with its knees bent to absorb the impact, then pivoted smartly and unloaded its entire complement of lasers into the larger mech's back.  The light array was dazzling, and the effect would have cored the back of the Banshee and destroyed the gyro and engine shielding.  The computers controlling the exercise decided this in the blink of an eye and relayed the information to Death's computer.  

Switching on an exercise channel, Mellert calmly informed the Banshee pilot of his 'death' and ordered him to power down.  Going back to his mech to mech link with Bryan, he muttered, "Banshees are pieces of junk anyways.  We should see about getting a refit kit for it. Slower, but firepower to back it up."  The Grasshopper, meanwhile, and leapt again and cored a Vedette medium tank, which according to the computer had suffered a magazine hit and exploded spectacularly.  "I see what you mean, though."  Bryan laughed.

"God's never wrong, my wayward creation."

"Yeah, yeah," Dave replied, dismissively, then belatedly added, "Sir."

The other Vedette and a huge, ancient Behemoth tank both cranked their turrets over and unloaded on the Grasshopper, which had taken back to the air just a moment too late.  Missiles with dummy warheads streaked in and peppered the mech's lower torso and legs.  Autocannon shells tore into the right knee, and lasers finished the job.  The computer determined that the mech's leg had been forcefully amputated.  Thumbing the exercise frequency again, the major whooped, "That's it, Chin, you're down. Kneecapped!"  He flipped off the radio still laughing.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you, Dave?"

"Hell yes.  Sir."

Bryan laughed and turned his attention back to the exercise action.  The Behemoth and Vedette that had finished off Chin turned their attention to a Hunchback that had been supporting the Capellan, peppering the medium mech with laser and missile fire.  Suddenly his radio squawked at him.  Bryan looked at it and noticed that the call was coming in over his personal frequency with Jordan.  Frowning, he toggled the radio on.

"Sir?  This is Jordan, acknowledge, please. Sir?  Si -"

"I'm here, Jordan, what is it?"

"Sir, you've got a Priority Alpha message waiting at the HPG station."

"What the hell?" Cochren thought to himself.  "Who'd be sending me a Priority Alpha message?"  Out loud, he said, "Well, patch it through to me out here, will you, Jordan?  The exercise isn't finished yet."

"No can do, Colonel.  Already asked.  The Acolyte says it's marked Eyes Only for you.  You'll have to go down to the station."

"Damn it.  Well, if someone paid for an Alpha, it must be worth it.  God out."  He flicked off the frequency and opened his link to Dave again.  "Major, finish up here.  Send the battleROMs to my office when you get back.

"Roger, Colonel," came the reply, sounding much more serious than usual.  It wasn't often Bryan called him by rank, so he knew something was up.  "Where are you heading, sir, if I may ask?"

"The HPG station, Major.  Someone paid ComStar a huge amount of money to send me a message.  Alpha Priority.  If I can, I'll fill you in later.  Good luck with the rest of the exercise, Lucifer.  Give Chin a good ribbing.  God out."

He turned away from the battlefield, where the Wolverine was now getting back to its feet.  The Militia seemed to be recovering now that Chin was out of the fight.  His was the heaviest mech on the Angels' side.  The Militia really had come a long way, though they were still very green troops.

Gabriel accelerated until it reached its maximum running speed of over sixty-four kilometers per hour.  He could make it back to the barracks in less than five minutes at that pace, and then grab a hoverjeep for the drive over to the HPG station.  With a few minutes to freshen up and change, he could make it there in about a half hour or so.

"Just press that button when you're ready to view the recording, sir," the Acolyte said.  Dressed in white robes, he nodded and left the room when Bryan acknowledged his understanding.  ComStar, a quasi-religious order, controlled the HyperPulse Generators, or HPGs, that allowed faster-than-light communications between planets.  Normally messages were batched and sent out perhaps once a week, depending on which planet they were going to.  For someone to pay the exorbitant sum for a Priority Alpha message meant that whatever it was they needed to tell him, they thought it was very important and needed to get to the recipient as soon as possible.  Bryan brooded for a few moments before hitting the button, wondering again who the message was from.

To his great surprise, Morgan Kell's visage appeared on the screen.  The Angels' Colonel' eyes widened at the sight of the famous Kell Hound leader.  Morgan wasn't a young man, but he looked very old to Bryan, his eyes haunted.

"Bryan, hopefully this message finds you well.  I have received news from Dan, relaying information that my son managed to broadcast while fighting Ryan's pirates out in the rim of the FRR.  Unfortunately it is several weeks old already, but I feel that you should see this as well, since you are also operating in Rasalhague space."  Morgan turned to his left a little bit, and he muttered, "Insert the footage here," to someone off-screen.  His bust was replaced by battleROM footage, presumably from his son Phelan's BattleMech.

The landscape shown was barren red rock, probably from high iron content.  In the distance an old Rifleman was sprinting from boulder to boulder, trying to stay out of sight of one of the oddest mechs Bryan had ever seen.  It looked like a cross between a Marauder and a Catapult.  The large blocky arms housed PPCs and lasers, but instead of the autocannon over the back, it had a pair of missile racks on the shoulders that, combined with the bullet-shaped body, made it resemble a Catapult.  As he watched, paired large lasers lanced out of the mech's arms, stabbing into the fleeing mech.  Then he noticed the range indication on the battleROM.  "Over 700 meters!" he thought.  "Impossible!"  But as he watched the unknown mech polished off the Rifleman with another salvo.  Phelan's mech charged in at it, scoring several hits, before the battleROM transmission ended and Morgan's face came back into view.

"The mech you see is like nothing I've ever known, Bryan.  Apparently it and it's companions not only finished off Ryan's pirates but also the lance that we had on planet."  He stopped talking for a moment, and his eyes teared up.  Bryan felt a stab of sympathy for Morgan.  He had no children himself, but he could imagine the pain of losing Nichole like that.  His phone rang, but he angrily turned the ringer off and ignored it as Morgan continued.  "The rest of that ROM is much the same.  They fire at impossibly long ranges and apparently have better armor and heat dissipation techniques than we do.  I have no idea where they came from or what their true intentions are, but obviously they are hostile.  I would suggest that you keep your eyes and ears open, my friend.  The Rock, where that recording was taken, is a ways from St. John, but just the same.  Be careful, Bryan.  Your contract is almost up for renewal.  You might want to bear this in mind."  Cochren's phone warbled again as the message ended.  He yanked it off his belt and stabbed the answer button.

"What?" he answered rather rudely.

"Colonel, this is Jordan.  Sorry to interrupt you, but you'd better get back here right now."

Bryan blanched and was filled with a horrible sense of foreboding.  When he spoke, his voice was like ice, almost a whisper.  "What is it, Graham?"

"We just received a radio transmission from the Messiah, sir, notifying us of a new, unidentified vessel in-system.  It was followed less than a minute later by a broadcast from the new vessel."

"And?"

There was a pause.  "They're asking for the ranking officer on the planet, and they want to know with what forces we're defending the planet, sir."

Bryan dropped his phone in shock.

On his way back to the barracks, Bryan tried unsuccessfully to get ahold of Harper Meryl, or any of the Council members.  None were answering their phones.  "Probably in a damned meeting," he muttered to himself.  He stuffed his phone back into his pocket as he pulled up to the barrack gates and flashed his badge at the MP on duty there.  The young man flashed a smile and salute at him, obviously not picking up on the Colonel's dark mood.  As the gate rolled open he rocketed through, before killing the fans and grinding to a halt in front of the offices.

He leapt out of the hoverjeep and sprinted to the communications room to find Jordan hunched over the screen and two other technicians busily examining readouts.  Nichole was there, as was Quix and Perry.  They all turned and saluted him smartly.

"Where's Mellert?" he demanded.

"He should be here any minute, Bryan," his wife answered.  "Graham told him to get his ass in here ASAP, so he left Chin to clean up the exercise and get everyone back to base."

"Good, he'd better get here soon, I want everyone present for this.  Can we get Patsy, Dallas, and the Old Man in here as well?"

"Out on maneuvers, sir," Jordan answered.  "I've informed them and they are making all due speed back to base."

"Any luck raising the Council?"

"Nope."

"Keep trying, we need to inform them of this as soon as we can."  The door of the already cramped room opening made him turn to see Dave and Kelly Packard join them.  He nodded slightly to acknowledge both before turning back to his communications officer.  "Play it, Graham.  This is enough for now."  Jordan flicked some switches on his board and the display lit up.

A dark-skinned man with broad shoulders and long braided hair shaved away from the temples in the manner of MechWarriors appeared.  Behind him was what appeared to be an internal bulkhead of a jumpship.  A sigil Bryan had never seen before, of a snarling canine in black with a background of what appeared to be swirling snow adorned the bulkhead behind him.  

"I am Star Colonel Ramon Sender of the 341st Assault Cluster.  St. John, hear my batchall.  I have come to take your world for the glory of Clan Wolf.  I wish to speak to the ranking officer of this planet, and to know with what forces he will defend so that I can bid my forces accordingly.  We shall make planetfall in three days.  I await your response."

Absolute silence filled the room.  It was almost as if nobody dared breathe.  Jordan, who'd already seen the recording, seemed by far the least affected.  Bryan took a deep breath and asked Jordan to play the Messiah's recording.  There was no video transmission with this, only voice and data.  The captain of the Messiah, Jaleel, spoke slowly and clearly to the room of tense officers.

"The data we've included is everything both passive and active sensors could pick up on the new vessels.  It appears to be a pair of Star Lord-class jumpships and an Invader-class jumpship.  They are carrying what appear to be five Unions and two Leopards, but their profiles don't quite match.  It's as if they've been heavily modified and the computers no longer really recognize them.  There's also an additional dropship that I cannot get a make on.  Profile suggests it's a blowtorch carrier of some sort.  I am taking the Messiah away from them slightly, but we'll not stray far so as to keep an eye on them.  We will continue to update as possible, especially if they disengage.  Horne out." 

Mellert broke the ensuing silence.  "Shit."

Packard added, "Knew this job was too good to be true."

The Colonel flashed back to watching that bizarre mech take part he Rifleman from Kell's message.  "You said it, Dave.  Jordan, of course you have the frequency to respond on?"  The communications officer nodded.  "Okay…umm…anybody know what the hell this guy Sender is talking about?  Batchall?  Bid his forces?"

Perry spoke up next.  "Does he really expect us to tell him our TO&E?  Are they Dracs?  Some point of honor or something?"  Everyone shrugged.

"He said 'for Clan Wolf', not for the 'Draconis Combine'.  That isn't any unit symbol I remember, but we can go through the database and check," Nichole added.  "And what the hell is a Star Colonel or a Cluster?"

"Good idea.  Damned if I know, though.  I'll -"

"I've got Meryl on the line, sir," Graham interrupted him.

"Put him on."  A moment later the Planetary Administrator's rugged face appeared on the screen.

"Good afternoon, Colonel."  A small frown of worry creased Meryl's brow.  "I trust there was no problem with the exercise today?  I've been told there have been accidents."

"No, Administrator, those are normal in training, nothing major.  I do need to speak to you and the Council as soon as possible.  I would prefer to do it in person, rather than over the comm."

The frown grew.  "I see.  Just a moment, please."  Meryl leaned out of the picture for a moment, then came back in to view.  "Will three hours from now be good enough?  The Council is in deliberation right now, the only reason I am here is I already cast my vote and decided to leave."

"That should suffice, Administrator."

"If that's not good enough, I can call an emergency meeting."

"No, sir, three hours will give me time to get my thoughts in order, and they won't make much difference to the news I have."

"Very well, Colonel, meet us in three hours then at the Council Chamber.  Until then."

"Until then, sir."  Bryan motioned to Jordan, who killed the connection, then sighed.  "Okay…suggestions on what to tell Mr. Sender?"

"Well, we could tell him there's only a lance here and pound the snot out of whatever he lands with," Mellert suggested.

"First off, there's nothing to suggest that he won't land everything anyways planning on pounding the snot out of our single lance, Dave," Bryan said.  

"Tell him the truth, sir," intoned Quix.  "He'd better say his prayers, because God and his avenging Angels are standing ready to kick his ass straight to hell."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, Quix.  But we have to imagine worst case.  Five Unions, two Leopards and an unidentified dropship is a lot of hardware.  He could potentially have two plus battalions.  In case anyone's counting, that means he roughly matches us in strength."  The Colonel sat down heavily.  "This is not going to be pretty."

Major David Mellert summed it all up for them again, with one quiet syllable.

"Shit."

Cochren stepped up to the microphone, reminded of the time several months before when he had first addressed the Council of St. John.  Now, however, he was alone, having sent all his officers off to begin preparations for battle.  He was filled with nervous energy, just like the first time he went into battle in his ancient Clint, his first 'mech, many years ago.  "Some things never change," he mused as he collected his thoughts.  The entire Council looked quite grave, even the normally cheerful planetary administrator Harper Meryl.  Bryan wondered idly if they already knew what he was about to tell them, then cleared his throat.

"Administrator Meryl, Council members," he began, looking each one in the eye in turn.  "I have rather disturbing news.  A few short hours ago, I received news that there is a hostile force in system."  He paused, and noted that only Meryl seemed unaffected by the news, confirming his suspicion that the man already knew.  The rest of the Council gasped and either leaned forward or rocked back in their chairs.  "At that time they contacted us and made their intentions to conquer this planet known."

"Who are they, Colonel?" asked Senator Bjorn, a slight man with Nordic features.

"In their communications they identified themselves as 'Clan Wolf', but other than that I cannot say who they are or from where they hail.  I will voice my opinion that they are not affiliated with any of the Successor States."

"What makes you say that?" pressed Bjorn.

"Call it a gut reaction.  I also received a communication from a friend that I believe is related to this and it also points away from the Successor States as an origin."  Bjorn nodded, apparently satisfied with that, which surprised Bryan.  Until today he would have scoffed had anyone told him that an invasion army lurked outside of known space.

Meryl rapped his knuckled on the table behind which he sat, then brought his chin up as he turned to look at each of his Senators.  "I also saw the communication that Colonel Cochren refers to."  In response to Bryan's narrowing gaze, he quickly added, "It arrived just after I finished speaking with him regarding this very meeting.  They wished to speak to the ranking military officer on the planet.  Obviously this would be the Colonel, since our militia is still untrained and yet half-formed."  The Senators nodded assent, though Koeling, a slight women who appeared to be in her early forties, seemed rather disgruntled about it.  Meryl turned back to Cochren.  "Colonel, in your opinion, can you mount a successful defense of the planet?"

Bryan thought for a moment before replying.  "Unfortunately, I cannot say at the moment, sir.  My jumpship captain reported enough ships out there to support two full battalions of BattleMechs as well as sizable air support.  My Angels field a battalion of 'mechs as well as a reinforced battalion of armor and air and infantry support.  If those ships are full of 'mechs, it would probably give a slight edge in firepower to them, while as the defender we would have a tactical advantage."  He sighed.  "However, that's dependant on knowing where they will land with sufficient notice to prepare a defense.  We won't have any data like that unless Jaleel can send us telemetry data.  Offhand, I'd say things are pretty equal and that means we've got a seriously nasty fight on our hands."

Her eyes narrowed, Koeling asked, "Will you stay, Colonel?"

A bit taken aback, Bryan blurted, "Excuse me?"  Meryl glared at her venomously.

"Will you be staying to fight, or will you run.  Your contract is, after all, up in only a couple weeks," Koeling continued, ignoring the poisonous stare from Meryl and the dark cloud descending over Cochren's visage.

Bryan pressed both hands to the edge of the podium in a white-knuckled grip.  "Do _not_ insult me, Senator Koeling.  My Angels fought and died on this world over a decade ago and the way things are shaping up we will again."  His voice grew colder with each word.  "I've already entered negotiations with the FRR to extend my contract here and while it hasn't yet been concluded, I will do everything within my power to fulfill that contract and keep St. John under the Rasalhague banner.  If it comes down to it and I have to make a choice between extermination or evacuation, well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."  He narrowed his eyes.  "Any more questions?"

"No one expects you to throw your men's lives away, Colonel," Meryl said, standing and raising his hands in a placating gesture.  "During your time here, you and your unit's conduct has been exemplary, which most of our people have picked up on.  Some people," he glanced at Koeling, "simply cannot let go of past hatred.  If, as you said, the choice is to leave or be wiped out, no one will gainsay you saving your command.  If they try to, well, they'll have to deal with me first."

"Thank you, Administrator.  It's nice to know that some of you live in reality.  I do have some items of my own to discuss."

Meryl sat back down and nodded.  "Ask, Colonel."

"First of all, I'd just like your opinion of something.  The invaders have asked with what forces we'll be defending this planet, and they phrased it in such a way as if they intend for things to be a fair fight.  Do you believe I should tell them or underestimate our strength?"

"Lie, of course," barked Koeling.  Jorgensson and Kyuss nodded in agreement with her.  "Isn't deception a part of warfare, be it in the office or in a 'mech?"  Cochren just nodded.  He had his own opinions on the matter and would follow his logic, but it was always interesting to hear the politician's point of view.  Or at least amusing.

"Shall I plan on including the militia in any battle plans?"

"Do you think they're ready?" asked Senator Staff, another of the revolutionary fighters from the Ronin War.  

"In a word?  No.  However, I don't believe that any military force is truly 'ready' until they've been through their first combat, a trial by fire, as it's often referred to.  If you want them to receive that and take part in the coming battle, I will do my best to place them in a position where they will be the least at risk and be supported by my more experienced fighters."

"I believe we should use all of the assets at our disposal, Colonel.  Though untried, our militia is not an insignificant force, either."  He paused for a moment before asking, "Do you believe the city will be in danger?"

Bryan shook his head.  "Again, I cannot say without further information, but I will do everything possible to keep the fighting out of the city.  No one wants to find out how bad urban warfare really is."  Everyone nodded agreement to that.  Not only was city fighting brutal on the combatants, with all the buildings reducing everything to point-blank ranges, but there was generally a lot of civilian casualties and property damage to boot.

"As expected, Colonel.  I know you to be a responsible man."  Bryan nodded a salute to the Administrator.  "I will obviously have to make an announcement concerning this, as it will soon be known regardless of my actions.  I'll notify the populace and have the civilian autho- "  He was cut off as the large doors to the Council Chamber swung open with a bang.  The aide who had originally shown him and his officers to the Council Chamber was there, with a white-robed Comstar Acolyte, clutching a data disk, behind him.  "Yes?" Meryl asked, his tone icy.

"Sir, the Acolyte insisted.  He says that he has a very important message for you from the Prince."  Meryl waved the pair forward, then took the data disk from the Acolyte and popped it into a player.  He was about to press the play button when the Acolyte cleared his throat.

"Sir, that message is for your planetary officials eyes only.  Colonel Cochren," he indicated the mercenary, who had been watching with interest from his place, "is -"

"- going to find out what's on this disk from me regardless of what you think, Acolyte, so he can stay."  He jabbed the play button and the Free Rasalhague Republic's Prince Magnusson appeared in front of him.  

"Officials of Rasalhague, I will be brief."  He spoke in the bizarre Swedenese that many of the Rasalhagians favored, but Bryan knew enough to catch what he said without translation.  "Our nation is under attack by forces from the Periphery.  Alleghe, The Edge, and New Caledonia have fallen.  All Rasalhague military forces are hereby placed on active status.  Report any contact with the invaders immediately.  I have attached what data we've amassed on the forces so far.  Stand fast.  We have faced threats from beyond our borders and triumphed.  We will again."  He winked out as the recording ended.  The Senators released a breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding.  Bryan rocked back on his heels.  "Three planets fallen already!" he thought to himself.  "And at least one more under assault…these aren't just Periphery bandits."  Images from Morgan Kell's message again came to mind.

Meryl stood and leaned over the table, fixing Cochren with a hard stare.  "I hereby declare St. John to be in a state of emergency.  Colonel, you have full control of our defenses.  Anything that you need, within our means, to exert that control and provide us a successful defense will be given to you.  Go, and keep us updated."

"Yes, sir, Administrator."

"Godspeed, Bryan.  And I truly hope He's looking down from Heaven on us today."


	7. The Angels: Descent Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

The Colonel sat back from the console and rubbed his hands over his face.  "Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what kind of response we get from that, eh?"  Captain Neal gave him a reassuring thumbs-up, while Perry Quince looked almost ready to sick up.  The rest of his command staff fell somewhere in between the two extremes.

"I'll bet he turns tail and runs, Colonel," offered Quix, prompting a nervous laugh from everyone.  "Pun very much intended…'Clan Wolf', indeed."

Cochren smiled.  "Yeah.  All right, lets hit the wardroom for some high-level discussion.  We'll leave the militia leaders out of it at this point – they're involvement is one of the things we need to go over."  He gestured towards the door.  "Go on, I'll be along in a minute or two.  And get some coffee going."  The officers saluted as space allowed in the cramped communications room, then began to file out.  Bryan called at his executive officer's back, "Major, that does not mean you.  You touch that coffee maker and I'll call this guy back and tell him that you'll meet him with your cooling shorts and a squirt gun, you got that?"  Mellert just gave him a nasty grin and continued on.  Bryan turned back to his communications officer and clapped a hand on the bigger man's shoulder.  "Graham, keep me posted.  As soon as anything comes in let me know, even if I'm sleeping.  Make sure anyone you have relieve you has standing orders to that effect."

"Yes, sir.  Do you want me to set up a regimental meeting?"

"Good idea.  Make it, oh, ten hundred tomorrow morning.  I imagine we should have an answer from our friends upstairs by then."  He nodded to Jordan, then left the communications center.  It was a short walk to the wardroom, and he arrived just as the coffee finished brewing.  The way Quix was leaning on the counter and the disgruntled look on his Major's face told him that the coffee would be palatable.  Apparently Dave's nefarious beverage plans had been thwarted.  He poured himself a steaming mug and sat down.

"Okay, then, on to the first order of business.  How do you think we should utilize the militia?"

Packard grunted.  "The kids aren't ready yet, sir."

"I know, Kelly, but the Council wants them to play a part in this.  Can we really deny them the chance to help defend their homeworld in the first place?"  Most of the officers shook their heads.  Dallas Shrike, his armor commander, did so vehemently.  He had been in a FedCom militia during the war of 3039 and done just that.  "I didn't think so.  The question is, how can we use them without putting them in a position where their inexperience makes them a liability to us and gets them all killed?"  Patsy rapped her knuckles on the table.  "Yeah, Bee?"

"Well, Colonel," the diminutive pilot said, "I don't know about the groundpounders, but as far as the aerospace pilots go I think putting them into a dogfight situation is a bad idea.  Only Michaelson is up to that, and we can't keep a good eye on them while shootin' and scootin'.  I think we should use them in a ground-attack role.  The little Seydlitz's they pilot can do a decent job of that without exposing themselves to too much fire.  Michaelson can ride herd over the eltee and Newmark, and if things get nasty they have run speed and can get the hell out of dodge."  Bryan nodded.

"Sounds good, Bee.  Kelly, do you think any of the infantry are up to a fight?"

"I'm assuming you mean the 'useful' ones, sir?"

Bryan laughed.  "Yeah, Kelly, the anti-mech PBIs.  You had what, two platoons of them in training?"

"Yes, sir.  Out of them, I'd say maybe a dozen or so are game, provided we attach them to our platoons.  By themselves they'd probably scatter."  The 'Old Man', as he was called, shrugged.  Cochren valued the Master Sergeant's opinion and often included him in planning sessions even though he refused a commission.  "I'd bet the Major'd say the same thing about their mechjocks," he drawled.

Bryan turned to his executive officer.  "Dave?"  His second-in-command leaned forward to answer.

"Defintitely.  They're fine in exercises and perform well enough as a team at lance level, but in a real furball?  They'd probably break without a veteran unit to stiffen their spines.  I'd suggest we saddle Perry with the heavy lance and Nichole with the lighter."  Quince frowned at his name.

"I'd…rather the heavy lance be attached to someone else," he said carefully.

Bryan fixed his senior company commander with a level gaze.  Quince had been down for a long time, and though he wasn't exactly the life of the party at the best of times, everyone could tell that he was seriously bothered.  "Perry, are you all right?  You're my most experienced captain and you have the heaviest machines in the regiment.  I know you can find a use for the militia without getting them killed."

His drawn face gave Bryan a moment of doubt.  "They'd be better off with Quix or Nichole, Colonel."  The other Captains looked at each other.  It definitely wasn't like Perry to try to delegate responsibility like that.

"Look, Perry, we've known each other a long time, so don't take this personally.  I need to know though – have you lost it?  I can't have you go south on me on the eve of a fight just because you've had a bad premonition."

That set Quince's jaw, and he replied firmly, "I'll not fail you, Bryan, but put the militia with someone else."

"Fine."  Cochren sighed.  "Quix, they're yours."  He glanced back at Perry.  "The heavies, that is.  Nichole, the lights will go to you.  They should complement Iota well," he said, referring to his wife's light lance.  They were known for hit and fade tactics and ambushes.  "Dallas, you and Mellert will need to work out how best to use their armor assets."

"Yes, sir," the officers responded.  Even the normally grinning Quix Neal was subdued now.

"Good.  We'll have a regimental meeting tomorrow morning at ten hundred.  I'll have the militia there for it as well.  Until then, work on suggestions for the best way to defend this rock and where to do it from.  If we don't hear from our new friends before then, we'll convene here again tomorrow morning at six.  Dismissed."

It was only about four hours later that his phone rang, waking him up after less than an hour of rest.  His wife, even after all these years, was still amazed that he could sleep on the eve of a fight.  After breaking the meeting last night, he had retired to his room and pored over topographical maps, reaffirming his five month old impressions of the possible battlefields St. John had to offer.  Then he had grabbed a notepad and begun scratching out plans.  After three hours of scribbling and brainstorming, he had finally collapsed into bed.  Nichole was already sound asleep, having come back over an hour earlier from a session with the other company commanders.  Mellert and Shrike were still at it, she had told him.

He snagged the phone before it could ring again and wake his wife.  She rolled over, but didn't say anything, so he assumed success.  "Graham?"

"Lieutenant Jordan's asleep, Colonel.  This is Corporal Frederickson.  You asked to be notified when we received a response from orbit."

"Indeed.  I'll be there in five minutes, Corporal."  
            "Should I call the other officers, sir?"

"No, Corporal, we've got less than -" he glanced at the clock, "- three hours before a dawn meeting anyways.  Let them sleep."

"All right, Colonel.  See you soon, sir."

Bryan hung up the phone, then slid from bed.  He was just pulling a shirt over his head when Nichole's voice spoke softly from the darkness.  "I take it they called back?"

"Yeah.  I'll be back in a bit.  We'll discuss it in the morning.  I figured I'd let all you guys get some rest in."  He pulled the shirt on and walked over to the bed, then leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.  "I love you, Nichole.  Go back to sleep.  Leave the restless pacing to us Colonels."

"Okay, dear.  Hurry back."

"I will."  He turned and left the room.  The corridors were empty this early in the morning, as anyone not on duty or insane was getting rest while they could.  A few minutes walking put him outside the communications room.  He opened the door and strode into the darkened room, lit only by a soft overhead.  The man at the console turned, then stood and saluted.

"Colonel, sir.  We had two messages come in, one from the 'Wolves' and one from the Messiah.  They arrived almost simultaneously."

"Very good, Corporal.  Have you played either, yet?"

"No, sir.  Would you like me to leave while you view them, sir?"

"No, that's alright, Corporal.  You'd find out tomorrow, er, later today anyways.  I'll just have to ask you to avoid rumor-mongering until then, okay, son?"  He clapped the young man on the shoulder.

"Thank you, sir."  Frederickson positively beamed.  "I got you some coffee."  He indicated a steaming styrofoam cup on the ledge.  "Which would you like me to play first, Colonel?"

"Thanks, Corporal."  He picked up the cup but didn't drink.  "Hmm…give me the Messiah's message first, when that's done play the Wolves'.  I'll want a copy of both when I leave, as well."  

"Aye, sir."  The corporal sat back down and fiddled with a few knobs, then pressed a button.  The familiar voice of Jaleel Horne, the Messiah's captain, came from the small speaker in the communications console.  Like before, it carried no video.

"Colonel, the ships have launched three of the Union-class ships and the one that we tentatively identified as a carrier.  They're oriented on St. John and are burning in at one gee.  Thrust profile suggests they are all fully loaded.  Obviously, they are still too far away for a projected landing zone.  There are no fighters in evidence yet, and likewise they don't seem to mind me and the Messiah sitting here keeping an eye on them.  They haven't even come over for a look-see.  I'll let you know if anything changes.  Horne out."

Cochren waved for the comm officer to play the next message when he looked up.  The now-familiar image of the invader's commander flashed into existence on the video screen.  He leaned forward, his braids swinging, and his deep voice boomed, "Colonel Bryan of the Angels.  Our bidding is complete.  We will attack with Supernovas Command and Second, Bravo and Charlie Battle Stars, and two Points of OmniFighters in roughly two and a half days.  Please communicate to us your choice of venue soon so that we may make the necessary course corrections."  His dark eyes narrowed, reminding Bryan very much of the wolf depicted in the crest on his left shoulder.  This smaller crest was a rust red wolf's head over a rectangle.  "I look forward to joining in battle with you, Colonel.  I will enjoy wresting this world from your control."  The image winked out, and Bryan sat back in his chair, mulling over what the two communications had told him.  Frederickson looked at him expectantly.

"Our choice of venue, eh?"  Bryan snorted.  Having just refreshed his memory from the topographical maps of St. John, he knew just where he wanted to fight.  "But is he being serious, or will he drop into our rear after we've deployed?" he asked himself, not really noticing that he'd spoken out loud.

"Sir?" Frederickson said, obviously confused.

"Well, son, suffice to say that things are going to get real interesting here on St. John in a couple days.  And this Star Colonel Sender is either extremely confident in his ability to beat us on our own terms, or very foolish."  He stood.  "Copies?"

"Oh, uh, yes, sir."  After a moment he handed Bryan a data disk.

"I'm sorry to leave you with so many questions, Frederickson, but you're just going to have to keep things under wraps for another seven hours or so.  There will be a regimental meeting at ten hundred, okay?"

"Yes, sir."  Bryan clapped him on the shoulder again, and smiled at the worried look on the youth's face.

"Don't worry, Corporal, the Angels will be fine.  We've got a deity on our side, remember?"  He raised the cup of coffee in a silent toast before taking a drink, then tried very hard not to grimace and spit it back out.  Apparently Lieutenant Frederickson had been taking coffee-making lessons from his executive officer.  Then he went to go get his maps so he could send a reply.

Later that morning, Cochren was already sitting in the wardroom by the time his staff showed up.  Even the armor company commanders were there, and Bryan nodded cordially to them.  Generally only Shrike came to staff-level meetings, and the Colonel trusted him to make sure the information got passed along.  Apparently he was taking this just as seriously as everyone else.  Bryan stifled a laugh when his XO walked in and narrowed his eyes at the already made coffee.

"Don't worry, Dave, a Corporal by the name of Frederickson nailed me last night with it."

Dave laughed.  "Garret?  He's my nephew."

Bryan snorted.  "No wonder.  If anything, his coffee was worse than yours."  Perry walked in next, followed by Patsy and Kelly Packard, completing the staff.  "Alright, everyone grab some coffee or whatever and have a seat.  We've got plenty to talk about this morning, and at ten hundred there will be a regimental meeting to inform the troops, officially, of what's going on."  Everyone nodded understanding.

"At about oh three hundred this morning we received two communiqués, one from Horne in the Messiah informing us of dropship launch by the invaders, another from this 'Star Colonel Sender' of the enemy forces.  According to Horne, they launched three of what he thinks are a Union variant, and one unidentified dropship that he thinks might be an aerospace fighter carrier.  The Star Colonel was kind enough to inform us with what forces he'll be landing -"

"Excuse me, sir," interrupted Captain Lydia Antonescue, the commander of armor's Third Company.  "They actually told us what we're going to be fighting?"

"Well, yes, Captain, for all the good it does us.  I have no idea what a 'Supernova', 'Star' or 'Point' is, so the only real thing we have to go on is the dropship loadout.  Horne says that the thrust profile indicates that two of the Unions are heavy, which means a full complement of big-assed machines.  From that I'd say we're facing a heavy battalion with possible aerospace support at least."

"Supernovas and Stars, Colonel?" asked Perry, showing some signs of life.  "Those aren't any unit designations used in the Successor States."

"I know, Perry.  I checked all the way back to pre-Star League.  Sender indicated that he intended to ground two Supernovas, two Stars, and two Points of what he called OmniFighters, whatever those are.  Furthermore, he asked me where I wanted to fight him."  That produced the desired results, as jaws dropped around the room.

Major Mellert cleared his throat.  "Begging your pardon, Colonel, but do you believe him?"

"In a word, yes, though I couldn't really tell you why.  This whole thing is so crazy that the only thing I am sure about is that in two days, give or take, we're going to have a fight on our hands."

"But why would anyone in their right minds offer to fight on the defenders' terms?  With a day to prepare and artillery assets, that's tantamount to suicide!"

"Obviously he thinks different, Major.  Either this Sender is a complete fool playing at being a warrior, or he knows something we don't.  Given the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of tons of military hardware up there, I'm inclined to believe the latter.  I have also received information from a couple different sources that lead me to believe that this is a dead serious attempt to take this world."

"What sources, Bryan?" queried his wife.

"Morgan Kell spent a lot of money to send me a message that arrived yesterday via Comstar.  In it he included some footage shot from his son's 'mech on duty in the periphery.  His son is missing, presumed dead, along with the rest of his lance, and they were fighting 'mechs the likes of which have never been seen before.  Also yesterday, during my meeting with the Senators and Administrator, a message arrived from Prince Magnusson for Meryl.  He allowed me to stay, and the message indicated that at least three other worlds have been taken already by these invaders.  He sent a data packet as well, which I've only been able to scan.  It seems to indicate that these 'Wolves' are indeed telling the truth in their dealings."  He held it up.  "We'll look at it in a bit."

"Okay, later with that stuff," said Quix.  "Did you tell him where we'll fight then?"

"I chose a small section of plain just east of the Killian Spires, about one hundred and twenty kilometers from here.  It's boxed in by foothills to the south and an old growth forest to the east.  Smaller 'mechs and most vehicles can navigate it, but larger BattleMechs will have a hard time.  I included coordinates for him to ground at here, north of that forest."  Bryan indicated the map lain out on the table.  "We'll see from his inbound trajectory if he follows them or not.  The foothills and forest give us good staging areas, and there is a flatland just south of the foothills that we can ground the Left and Right at if need be.  A few more kilometers south is where I'll have them stationed, along with our artillery."

"And if they don't ground there and choose to head for the city instead?" asked the Old Man.  His infantry would be much more useful in a city fight, even though nobody wanted to see that happen.

"We call in the ships and make a short hop back to the city.  We'd still get there before them, especially with Patsy to harass them on the way in."  Packard nodded.  "Okay, first I'll lay out my basic deployment, then we'll have about two and a half hours to iron out some details, including a redeployment strategy.  Deal?"

"Yes, sir," replied his officers.

"Good."  The Colonel dumped a bunch of unit markers onto the map, then began to place them as he spoke.  "I think we'll sit Shrike's heavy stuff in the western woods, along with elements of First and Third Companies.  In the eastern woods I'll want the harassment stuff.  We can hit them and fade back into the forest, so fast 'mechs and armor only.  We'll place one platoon of infantry near the northern edge to spot for artillery as they move west before turning south into the plains.  Kelly?"

"Yeah, boss," the sergeant drawled.

"I think you're anti-mech platoons will get to test out those new Maxims as well.  I want them in the western edge of the woods.  Once we've engaged in the plains you pop into the rear and see if you can take someone down.  The northern edge of the woods will be the cutoff point for artillery – they'll go back on the dropship then.  The main battle element will deploy along the foothills to draw them in.  Once they do, the surprises come out of the woods and we've got them on three sides.  Fourth Company can put those LRM carriers to some fire support, and the SRM carriers should be poised just over the top of the hill.  They'll be a nasty surprise for anyone getting too close.  If things go to hell, we fall back south to this grassland," he pointed, "and load up.  Everybody got it?"  A chorus of agreements met his question.

"Good.  Now let's make it better."


	8. The Angels: Descent Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

"Colonel?" said a voice in Bryan's ear.  He pressed his hand over the ear bud, trying to block out some of the noise and hear what his communications officer had to say.

"Yeah, Graham, what is it?" he replied.

"Spaceport control just called.  They say that the dropships should be entering atmosphere in about twenty minutes and unless they make a last second course correction, they'll land right where you told them to.  As near as they can tell they have a small fighter screen, and only the Unions are coming in."  

Cochren glanced up at the cockpit of Graham Jordan's CP-10-Z Cyclops standing not twenty yards away.  Even in the early dawn light, barely visible, the huge eye painted over the viewport made him laugh.  He didn't think, even given years here on St. John, that he'd get used to the sun rising in the west.  He waved, and the ninety-ton BattleMech returned the gesture.  "Excellent, Graham.  Give me a line to Patsy, then issue the alert to mount up."

"Yes, sir."  A short buzz followed by a beep indicated his signal being routed to another line.

"Bee?"

"Yeah, Colonel?" came the immediate reply.

"Their dropships hit atmosphere in just under twenty minutes, Bee.  Only the Unions, apparently, but they're bringing some smaller friends with them.  Time for the Wings to hit the sky.  Take care of the fighters first, then you can make a run on the dropships if you feel it's safe.  Are the militia ready to go as well?"

"Yep."

"Have them wait another…five minutes after you light off, then head this way for some strafing runs."

"Wilco, Colonel.  Happy hunting!"

"Go, Bee."  He broke the connection.  Already around him soldiers were running for their 'mechs and vehicles.  Here, just south of the first foothills, Bryan had assembled his main force.  The Command Lance stood nearby, with Graham and Sun Chin already saddled up.  Major Mellert's massive black Atlas and the Colonel's own Victor stood mutely nearby as well.  Beta lance of First Company were near the LRM Carriers of his fourth armor company.  The Stalkers, Catapult, and Archer could, coupled with the tanks, lay down a barrage of long range missiles that few BattleMechs could withstand.  Elements of Second and Third Companies rounded out this force.  His heavy 'mechs and armor were scattered in the western woods as a flanking force, and the lighter ones were ready to jump into the enemy's rear from the east.

            He took one last look around at the assembled war machines.  As much as he hated the idea that people were going to die today, there was no denying the exhilaration he also felt.  The be sitting in command of eighty tons of metal, myomer, and weaponry was to truly be alive.  He walked over the to feet of Gabriel and stripped down to just shorts before climbing the chain ladder to the cockpit.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw his executive officer doing the same, scrambling up the chest of Death and looking for all the world as if he were using the ribs painted on there as his ladder.

            Once in the cockpit, he shrugged on his cooling vest, and sat down in the command couch.  He plugged in the power lines for the vest, then reached up and back and settled the neurohelmet onto his padded shoulders.  He got it settled, then flipped the main for the assault 'mech, prompting the onboard computer to ask, "Final voice code, please?"  Bryan smiled broadly and looked out the viewport at his assembled warriors before responding.

            "In the beginning, God created the Angels, and he knew that they were the best."  The fusion reactor below him in Gabriel's chest roared to full military power and the cockpit lit up.  He went through a quick rundown, flexing the 'mech's arms and twisting at the waist.

            "SRMs fully loaded, Pontiac green, lasers charged," he said to himself, checking his weaponry.  The computer reported a minor glitch in the jump jet circuitry, but it quickly smoothed things out.  "Excellent."  He keyed the regimental frequency.

            "All right, Angels, this is it.  We should have company in twenty-five minutes or so."  They had run land lines into both forests as soon as they'd arrived at their choice of battlefield.  Cochren didn't want radio transmissions giving away his hidden unit's positions.  "Remember the plan, think on your feet.  We're going to show these guys why this planet doesn't fly the Draconis Combine banner today.  First battalion, sound off."

            "Iota plus, good to go."  Iota had the light lance of the St. John Militia attached to it.

            "Theta, all green."

            "Third Company is ready, Colonel," his wife responded.  The BattleMech battalion performed roll call in reverse order.  After both Quix and Perry had reported ready status, he called for the armor battalion, then finally infantry.

                        "Command Lance is ready.  God's got a lightning bolt in hand.  You've all made me proud over the time we've served together.  I know today you'll do so again.  All quiet until I give the word."

            With nothing left to do now but wait for the Wolf dropships to land, each soldier was alone with his thoughts.  Bryan often wondered how the various men and women in his unit dealt with this part of warfare.  He himself scanned the skies, looking for the flares of descending dropships and, he hoped, the burning wreckage of the enemy's fighter screen.

            "Be careful, Bee.  Claim first blood for us."

            Patsy "Bumblebee" Richards closed the communications link with Colonel Cochren and took a second to compose herself.  She held a hand out in front of her and grinned.  "Rock steady," she said to herself.  Flying was a wondrous thing for her, even when going into combat.  She never got the jitters, which was part of the reason she was a squadron commander.  He fighters were already lined up on the tarmac for launch, at standby.  She keyed a squadron frequency, which the Militia pilots were tuned into as well.

            "All right, Wings, it's time to go.  Bring 'em up, and we'll launch in lance order.  There are three Unions up there with fighter support.  We hit the birds first, the eggs later if we can.  Got it?"

            The chorus of, "Yes, sir!"s was followed a half second later by Loco's drawled, "Got it, little lady."  Bee smiled.  Loco was a bit unorthodox, and certifiably crazy, hence his name, but he was a great flier.

            "Good.  Lojtnant Roulf?  You and your lance will wait five minutes, then launch.  Loiter over grid alpha niner seven until called in for ground support by either myself or the Colonel.  Go in hot, and it should only take you thirty seconds or so to get there.  And be careful.  You get hit, you break off.  Those little Seydlitz's can't take much of a pounding."

            "Ja, Captain."

            Patsy made one last quick check of her instruments, then glanced over at Loco, who gave her the thumbs up.  The lone figure of ground control standing between the two massive fighters waved once, twice, and then whirled and pointed down the runway.  The Shilone and Lucifer, an odd pair if there ever was one, kicked in their afterburners and thundered down the runway.  Her grin grew broader as the flying wing design bit the air and pulled up off the runway.  She could imagine Loco letting go a rebel whoop, but thankfully he had the sense to keep it off the airwaves.  She and her wingman heeled over on a heading for the battlefield and began a steep climb, and a look behind her showed the SL-15 Slayers of her second lance following, and the Stingray and Transgressor that completed the squadron just lifting off.

            "Wings, vee formation."  Raptor's Slayers pulled up off and behind her left wing, while Lightshow's flight matched on the right.  She checked her scanners, which showed the dropships but couldn't make out the fighters at this range.  "Sing out when you get a make on the birds."  A minute later the enemy ships entered the atmosphere and her scanners picked up the smaller fighters escorting the dropships.  It showed four, but couldn't decide what type of aerospace model they were.  Two of them finally settled on SL-15 Slayers while the other two flipped back and forth between Corsairs, Stukas, and Lucifers.

            Loco's voice piped into the comm, "Bee, my computer's going loco on me.  It can't make up its mind on what they are.  Says one pair are Slayers but it didn't seem too sure."

            "Roger, Loco, same here.  Lightshow, Raptor?"

            "Ditto, Bee," came Marcus "Raptor" Freeman's reply.

            "I knew we should have downloaded the latest patch before we left," said Milosovic.

            "All right, all right.  First lance has the closest Slayer, Second, the further.  Lightshow, see if you can draw the other pair off the dropships and – wait, never mind, they saw us."  Her scanners showed the fighters peeling off to engage her squadron.  She waited while it painted their new formation, then continued.  "Okay, same targets.  Lightshow, pray those things are Corsairs or Lucifers."

            "And just what's wrong with a Lucifer?" demanded Loco.  Bee laughed.

            "Nothing, Loco, with you at the controls.  Break wide, everyone."  The squadron pulled out of tight formation, then Bumblebee's threat indicator lit up and a screech informed her of target lock on.  She juked down and left, followed by Loco, then checked her own display.  "Impossible," she thought, "I'm still way out of range!"  As if mocking her, the azure bolt of a PPC streaked through the space she'd just been in.  "Those aren't Slayers!" she shouted into the squadron frequency.

            "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" shouted Loco as a flight of long range missiles arrowed in on him.  Most missed, but a handful shattered armor over the right wing of his fighter.  An eyeblink later two cobalt particle projection cannon beams flashed past him, narrowly missing.  Bee turned her attention back to her original target as her range indicator flashed green.  She took a half-second to achieve lock on the enemy and let fly with her own LRMs and large laser, and Loco added his missiles and large beamers to the mix.  The laser missed, as did one of Loco's, but the combined flight of forty missiles hammered the fighter, blowing armor into chaff even as the laser bit into the fuselage.  Long range flashed to medium and short in an eyeblink as the fighters closed, but Bee and Loco held their fire, not wanting to overheat too badly.  The enemy pilots, however, showed no such compunction.

            The plane that had targeted Bee at long range almost disappeared behind a gout of flame as the massive autocannon in its nose belched a clip of depleted-uranium slugs that chewed into the armor of her left wing.  She jerked up and right, throwing off the rest of the rounds, but a dozen short range missiles corkscrewed in on her, following her maneuver and blowing armor off all along her fuselage.  The heavy fighter shook under the barrage, but flew on.  Loco's opponent lit him up with two stuttering laser pulses, melting armor off of each wing of his ungainly fighter.  

            Having finally closed to an effective range, the twin Slayers of Second Lance unloaded on their target, and an impressive display it was.  Tracers streamed from the eighty-ton fighters as they cut in their heavy autocannons, chewing into the fuselage and wing.  Of the ten medium lasers, three missed, with the other seven melting armor from all over the beast, but still it came on.  The two pairs flashed past so close Bee imagined that she could read the numbers of the tail.  She popped a flight of SRMs from her aft launcher at the plane just to be spiteful, and was rewarded with a pair of hits, though they did little damage.

            Pulling up and over to reverse her direction, she punched the burners.  "Let's get on the tail of target one, Loco."  She could see Raptor and Air Raid diving and rolling to come back the same direction.  Lightshow and Stoop were nowhere to be seen in her quick scan, so she muttered a prayer for their safety.  During a battle, most chatter was confined to wingmates, not the squadron, so she just had to hope they were handling the other pair all right on their own.

            Gregor "Lightshow" Milosovic cursed.  Whatever this thing was - and it wasn't a Corsair, Lucifer, _or_ a Stuka - it was a royal pain in the ass.  His Stingray wasn't having much of a problem staying behind it, and he'd managed to tag it a few times with his PPC and lasers, blowing a heatsink or two, but it just wouldn't quit.  The flash of two lasers from an aft mounting slagged more armor from his nose and reminded him that even if he did stay behind it he wasn't safe.

            Unlike the other pair that Bee and Raptor had engaged, this pair split as the two pilots arrowed in on them, one heading each way.  Not wanting to leave one unengaged, Gregor had gone left, telling Stoop to take the one on the right.  Carefully he lined his sights up on the ungainly-looking craft again and stroked the trigger, letting his entire weapons complement fly.  A palpable wave of heat slammed into him as two heavy lasers, two mediums, and a PPC momentarily connected his fighter and the one he chased in a brilliant riot of color.  The two mediums hit each wing, but the large lasers and PPC cored the engine housing, spitting molten pieces of the turbine out through a glowing hole his weapons had opened.  The pilot ejected as the craft pitched up, almost as if in pain, then wrenched itself into two pieces aft of the midline.  The wind resistance disintegrated the thing, with chunks of it breaking off for the long fall to St. John below.  Lightshow gasped for breath at the horribly sluggish controls, having paid dearly for unleashing his namesake.

            "Lightshow, help!" shouted Stoop over the radio, desperation apparent in his voice.  Gregor heeled over on the controls, the overheated Stingray slowly responding and rotating up on its right wing to bank around.

            "On my way, Jay," he responded breathily.  He'd just turned around enough to get a visual on the pair, his controls returning almost to normal, and gasped again, this time in shock.  Stoop's Transgressor was pockmarked with damage.  The fighter trailing it had enough armor damage to prove that Jay had put up a good fight, but then it fired.  A trio of lasers carved into Stoop's fighter, followed by over a half-dozen SRMs that battered the plane, opening more rents in its armor.  One found a hole in the fuselage and detonated, blowing coolant out and marking the death of several heatsinks.  Then the large-bore autocannon in the fighter's nose barked, and sparked erupted all along the fighter.  A glow emerged from cracks and holes in the fuselage.  "Stoop, eject, EJE -" he tried to warn his wingmate, but the heavy fighter erupted as its fusion reactor went critical, swallowing Jay Honnold and the plane he'd flown in a single blinding flash.

            Lightshow growled a bit off oath and stood on the rudder to put himself behind the spindly fighter, but this one was better at the controls than his former wingmate.  The unknown fighter and Gregor's Stingray spiraled down, down, each unable to turn inside the other.

            "Damn it all, Raptor, get that second fighter off our tail!"

            "Working on it, Bee, he doesn't seem too inclined to give us another poke at him," Marcus shot back.  The staccato burst of his autocannon bled over the line before he shut the comm off.  Out of the corner of her eye she spied tracers wing off into the sky, then Loco curse colorfully over their personal frequency.

            Sparing a glance to her right at her wingman, she saw a gaping hole in one wing of his beloved Lucifer, probably from the twin PPCs the enemy behind them carried.  Even as she watched a pair of stuttering laser pulses chewed into the fuselage, stripping all but the last armor from the aerospace fighter, but not doing further damage.

            "Forget this," her wingman drawled.  "Raptor, Air Raid, break off, NOW!" he commanded into the squadron band.

            "Loco, what the hell are you up to?" Bee demanded as she tried to get a lock on the juking opponent in front of her.  She got it, biting into its right wing with the large laser, but both mediums missed.

            "Oh, nothing, little lady."  The innocence in his voice made Bumblebee look over again, just in time to see him drift left and pop his air brakes.

            The large flaps set into the wings and top of the Lucifer's fuselage snapped open, slowing the big fighter over a hundred kilometers per hour in the blink of an eye.  The trailing pilot, which had drawn a little too close in their zeal for the kill, tried to pull up and over the Lucifer, but only partially succeeded.  

            Bee screamed in inarticulate rage as the left wing of the craft hit the right tail of Loco's fighter, shearing both off.  The other plane flipped over to the left, barely missing the Lucifer, and then arrowed straight for the ground in a tight barrel roll.  The pilot ejected rather than ride his craft to the ground.  Loco went into a flat spin.  

            Still watching her wingmate's fall to St. John, Bee was treated to Air Raid's Slayer flashing by her cockpit two hundred meters off her right wing.  She twisted to follow her pilot's flight, and saw the end result of a beautiful scissors maneuver that ended with her opponent being caught in a crossfire of heavy autocannon shells and a plethora of medium lasers.  Something touched off an ammo explosion, and the fighter disintegrated in a fireball.

            "Good riddance," she muttered, then rolled her Shilone and dove.  "Loco?  LOCO!" she called over her ship to ship band, to no avail.  Either he was out cold from the impact or the Lucifer's ever balky communications system had failed in the collision.  Bee kept one eye on the altimeter, watching as she plummeted through ten thousand feet following her wingmate.  As she passed five thousand feet, almost ready to break off herself, the afterburners on the Lucifer flared to life, giving it enough of a kick to break the spin.  The ungainly craft began a slow climb as she sighed in relief.

            "Lightshow?  How are you and Stoop doing with that pair?" she asked.  Gregor's weary voice responded after a moment.

            "Stoop bought it, Bee."  She cursed silently.  "But I got the bastard after Raptor and Air Raid distracted him for me."

            Bee took a few deep breaths to steady herself.  As much as she wanted to rage at the death of her pilot, watching Loco's crazy stunt nearly take him out as well had sapped her emotional reserve for the moment.

            "Form up.  We'll get some strafing runs in on them before we have to return to the spaceport to refuel."  Way off in the distance, she could make out three drive flares as the dropships braked for landing.

            Loco's battered Lucifer pulled up off her right wing, and she gave it a good look.  It still seemed airworthy, though she doubted it had even a semblance of the already poor maneuverability it began with.  With his radio out, she couldn't even tell him to return to port.  She pointed at him, then at the ground, her sign language perfectly clear.  He waved at her.  She did it again, then belatedly realized that he was pulling her leg.  He knew exactly what she wanted, he just wasn't going to do it.

            She gave him the finger.

            "God, Bumblebee here," buzzed a voice through his radio.  Snug in the cockpit of his Victor, Gabriel, Bryan was on edge, waiting for word from his aerospace forces as well as the infantry deployed in the eastern forest.  The enemy dropships should be hitting the ground soon.  He smacked the comm to open a two way channel with his fighter captain.

            "This is God, status, Bee?"

            "Four enemies downed, in fighters I've never seen before.  We won't be able to hit the dropships before they make planet fall, looks like less than a minute before they touch down.  We'll get a couple runs in on the ground forces before we have to head back to refuel."  The normally outgoing pilot seemed subdued, and since she didn't volunteer the information, Cochren had to ask.

            "Casualties?"

            There was a slight pause before she answered.  "We lost Stoop.  He didn't punch out.  Loco…well, he's still here."  Bryan slammed a fist into the armrest of his command couch.  Yes, he knew this was war and people died, but that didn't mean he had to like it, especially when it was _his_ people.  As angry and sad as he felt, though, he knew it would be much worse on the pilots, who were a very close-knit bunch.

            "There'll be time to grieve later, Bee.  If you guys aren't in shape for passes, forget it, otherwise, wait for the infantry to give the word.  The Old Man will let you know when they're in a good position."

            "Roger, Colonel.  We'll make sure we leave some standing for you."  

            "You do that, Bee.  God out."  Closing the frequency, he snarled in anger.  In his mind he knew taking on four fighters and only losing one was a definite victory for his pilots.  Stoop had been next in line for a flight command when the Angels upgraded their aerospace forces.  Now that would never happen.

            He flipped another toggle, activating one of the land lines that snaked off into the eastern woods.  

            "Packard, God, acknowledge," said the voice in Kelly's helmet headset.  He tapped the button to activate his mike.  His headsets were short-range, no chance of detection, and all communications were routed through the Maxim and its land line some hundred meters away.

            "And the voice boomed from the Heavens," drawled the Old Man.  "I read you, Colonel."

            "You're going to have company real soon, Kelly."  The Master Sergeant raised the binoculars to his face again and peered out through the northern edge of the woods at the enormous drive flares of braking dropships and the grounded behind some hills and just out of sight.  One of them already had its bay doors open.

            "I can see that, God.  Looks like they're right where you asked them to be."

            "Awful nice of them.  Kelly, make sure your spotters are in place and will fall back under fire.  You guys won't stand a chance if the 'mechs decide to play."

            "Noted.  Are we gonna to get air strike support?" he asked, mentally crossing his fingers.

            "Yes, one bird down, Bee will lead them in when you call."  Packard sighed in relief that his friend was ok.  He knew better than to ask who'd bought it right then.

            "Good.  We'll keep you appraised, God.  Old Man out."  He tapped the mike off, and then bellowed, "Lopez!  Get your butt up here!"  PFC Lopez appeared at his side in a flash, grinning ear to ear under a too-large combat helmet, his assault rifle held across his chest.

            "Yeah, boss?"

            "Run over to Sergeant McNichols and tell him I want him to pull the Goblins in another two hundred meters.  We'll bring the heavy end of the hammer down on us if they get spotted.  With these big-assed trees they'll still have time to bug out before 'mechs can tunnel in here."  The Goblins, though much, much slower on open terrain than his new Maxim heavy APCs, were actually faster and more maneuverable in the forest than the nimble hovercraft.  If pressed, the spotting foot soldiers would fade back, climb into their transports, and book it back to the waiting Right Hand of God.  "And tell him to keep his eyes peeled and get the birds and arty rolling as soon as he gets a good view of them."

            "Got it, sir.  McNichols is to order the Goblins back another two hundred meters.  As soon as he has confirmed ID of the enemy he's to call in air strikes and artillery support," Lopez repeated, proving he'd heard his superior correctly.  Packard nodded.

            "Go."  The private, first class took off in a low, hunched run parallel to the tree line and further east.  McNichols was in charge of the foot platoon that had spotting duties today, the men scattered amongst the trees and brush just inside the tree line.  Packard could just make out one of the Goblin tanks through the massive trees, his own Maxim blocking part of it.  Within that APC were his 'boys', the anti-mech trained First Platoon.  He beamed at the though of once again leading his beloved PBIs into combat, then turned back to the hills where the enemy dropships had grounded and raised his binoculars once more.  BattleMech began to crest the hill, moving in small groups.  He couldn't recognize the designs, but they were all big, medium weight at least.  He silently began to count, but his headset buzzed again moments later, interrupting him.

            "Packard, this is Epsilon One, copy?" said the cultured voice of Mara Toyama, the lance's commander.  He tapped his mike.

            "Roger, Epsilon.  What?" he growled.  Epsilon was the Angels' dedicated reconnaissance lance, stationed a bit farther east than the spotters

            "Corporal Griegor's Mongoose is picking up something moving in the woods a little over half a klick east of here.  None of the rest of us have it, but he insists they're there and he's got that newfangled scanning equipment in there.  We're going to sidle that way and check it out, which means the land lines get cut.  Please relay to God, and any further communications from us will be via standard frequencies."

            "Got it, Epsilon.  I'll tell the boss.  Out."

            Another glance showed the Goblin gone from view, and he turned back to the drop zone to see the unidentified 'mechs moving down off the hills.  He tapped his mike again.

            "God, Packard, update.  Epsilon is moving to recon unknown contact in the woods five hundred meters east of them.  They are cutting the land lines.  I count thirty, that is, three-zero BattleMechs of unknown design.  Weights are medium plus, lots of heavies and assaults.  Strikes to commence soon."

            Even as he finished his communication to the Colonel, he could just make out the telltale whistle of an incoming artillery round, a sound over a millennium old and still feared.  Looking through the binoculars, he could see the round hit, but too far north.  "Damn it all," he muttered, "Correct, correct!"  Then there was an ear-splitting boom from overhead as the Angels' aerospace fighters began their strafing runs.

            A bright flash of laser fire shot from the Shilone's nose and wings as Patsy "Bumblebee" Richards whipped overhead, followed closely by Loco in his Lucifer, which appeared to be missing most of its armor and a tail.  Both fighters were wreathed in smoke as two score missiles leapt from the racks, reaching out to pepper one of the more humanoid-looking 'mechs that was marching down the hill.  It toppled, but immediately began to get back up as its comrades returned fire, missing the supersonic fighters by a good margin.  

            "Gotcha, you bastards," said the veteran infantryman, as a huge grin split his weathered face.

            Leah "Air Raid" Shoeman grinned inside her flight helmet.  Only twenty-three years old, this was her first combat since joining the Angels.  If pressed, she'd admit that it was her first combat, period.  Leah was the daughter of one of the original Angels pilots, Arthur Shoeman, and the SL-15 Slayer heavy aerospace fighter she piloted had once belonged to her father.  He had died in this cockpit.  Though most would take that as a bad omen, it only increased Leah's resolve not to follow in her father's final footsteps.  

            Her first true sortie and she already had one confirmed kill and an assist.  It bothered her that she had no idea what it was she'd shot down, though.  The fighter had looked rather like her own, with a large delta-wing configuration, but it definitely had more bite, packing a heavy autocannon, PPC, and short range missiles.  It had also, she found out, had a large laser to cover its aft arc that the pilot had proved remarkably accurate with, lasing armor from her nose even as she and Raptor had combined fire to burn him down.

            Glancing to her left, she could see her wingmate's Slayer dancing just above the tree line.  Nap o' the earth flying, NOE, was some of the most mentally and physically demanding flying a pilot could perform.  She and Raptor skimmed a mere fifty meters above the landscape below, juking up and down to avoid hills, sometimes swerving around them.  If she hadn't been concentrating so hard on not running into the foothills of St. John, she'd probably have thought the sights beautiful.

            "Air Raid," said Raptor through their ship-to-ship line.

            "Yeah, Raptor?"

            "We're going to shift left and come in more from the west.  It'll give us a good corridor to walk the A/Cs down, and the sun at our backs.  ETA is one five zero seconds.  Follow me."

            "Got it, one hundred fifty seconds."  He hazel eyes lit up in anticipation.  Slight pressure on the flight stick brought her eighty-ton machine up a bit as it banked and slid left, passing over a small lake that glistened in the rising sun's glow.  An old man in a rowboat looked up at the roaring fighters as they passed, then put the cigarette back between his lips and cast again, unconcerned and unaware of the battle brewing kilometers away.

            Another nudge of the stick lined her up for the run in on the opposing forces, still tucked in behind and to the right of her lance leader.  She glanced at her chronometer.

            "Thirty seconds, Air Raid.  Hit whatever you can, Bee softened them up for us.  Be careful."

            "Roger, Marcus."

            The paired fighters flashed over the two dropships of the Angels, the massive Overlord-class vessels looking like out of place skyscrapers set in the middle of a small plain.  In another eye blink they were passing by the Colonel's main battle force.  She could have sworn she saw the Colonel's Victor waving as they went past.  Her HUD lit up with enemy BattleMechs, and she squeezed her main target interlock circuit's trigger, sending a hail of depleted uranium slugs walking down the field, preceded by the emerald flare of her medium lasers.  The show ripped across several 'mechs, their return fire coming sporadically, apparently having been thrown off-kilter by Bumblebee and Loco's run just moments before.  A single laser hit rocked her fighter as she bore in on them, following her wingman's lead.  Flashing perpendicular to their flight path came the trio of Militia fighters, their large lasers stabbing down and boiling armor from the rank of BattleMechs.

            Then it happened.  One enemy near the rear of their formation wrestled itself back to its feet.  Even as she watched it leveled its right arm at them.  Twin cobalt spears of PPCs leapt from the 'mech's wrist, one flashing harmlessly past Raptor's swooping fighter.  The other impacted squarely on the cockpit canopy, melting instantly through the armored glass and exploding her Lieutenant into a pale mist.  Leah screamed in horror as the fighter slowly rolled over onto its back and arced into the ground.  

            It hit a mere fifty meters in front of the enemy machines and skipped like a rock off of water, then nailed a bizarre-looking headless 'mech to the left of the one that had fried the pilot.  The BattleMech disintegrated under the impact of eighty tons of steel, its limbs flying off in every direction.  The combined weight of the two machines carried on into another like 'mech behind it.  The fusion engines of all three lit off, looking like a small atomic bomb exploding and sending the three closest enemies sprawling on the ground from the force.

            Pulling up and left, she barrel rolled over the trio of dropships that had delivered the enemy machines to St. John and bit back tears.  Raptor had taken her in when her dad had died in the cockpit some ten years ago.  He'd trained her, and agreed to take her as his wingman when he'd made Lieutenant.  Now she'd lost not one, but two fathers.

            She keyed her mike.  "Bee, this is Air Raid."  She swallowed past the lump in her throat.  "Raptor's down, took two more with him.  I'm heading home."

            Lieutenant Mara Toyama stepped around the bole of an enormous tree, weaving her way closer to the anomalous contact that her lancemate's Mongoose had picked up.  Manipulating the controls of her SDR-5V Spider, she patted the trunk affectionately.  Her BattleMech was nearly two hundred and seventy years old, but she guessed that this tree was at least that if not more.  Suddenly the ground shook from the Angels' arty battery, and the screaming wail of aerospace fighters rocketed by overhead.  She smiled.  "Well, they know we mean business now," she mumbled to herself.  Keying a button, she opened a lance communications frequency and dialed the power down, hoping that the forest would mask the radio usage.  She had her own things to tend to at the moment.

            "Nikolai, what have you got?"

            "The Beagle still insists that they're there, Lieutenant.  Two hundred and fifty meters and closing, but I don't see anything.  Readings don't coincide with anything I've ever seen, or the computer," Griegor replied, his Slavic accent showing through as it always did under stress.

            "Me either, Lieut," chimed in Victor Cortez, her lance's Jenner pilot.

            "Well, just keep your eyes peeled, guys."  Mara was a little worried, but also wondering if that weird Beagle thing wasn't leading them on the proverbial wild goose chase.  She glanced at her passive scanners, again seeing nothing, and then something caught her eye.  "Bearing oh-eight-oh, anyone else see that?"  She strained her eyes again in that direction, taking a few steps towards it.  Griegor's Mongoose was a good hundred meters in front of her Spider, hidden by the trees, with Cortez's Jenner and Jennifer Kilgore's Hermes completing the box, left forward and right forward of her position respectively.  Maybe Nikolai's –

            "Son of a bitch!  What the hell?" Nikolai Griegor's panic-ridden Slavic voice burst over the lance radio frequency.

            Mara instantly kicked her 'mech into as much of a run as she could manage.  The nimble Spider dodged trees wider than it was left and right.  "Everyone converge on Nikolai, now!" she barked into the radio.  Shouldering aside one of the rare younger trees, she stepped around a last wide bole and gasped.  "You'd better hurry up, Lieutenant," her heretofore silent lancemate said over the comm.

            Jennifer had beaten her to her beleaguered lancemate, and the pair of 'mechs were firing their medium lasers impotently at a swarm of small machines bustling around them.  Mara was stunned.  She'd never seen anything like them in her entire life.  They stood perhaps a third as tall as the 'mechs they beset, and if it weren't for the metallic gleam of sunlight glinting off steel hides she'd have sworn they were a pair of humans being pestered by the wood sprites of lore.  At least fifteen of the beasts were in sight, and the Mongoose's armor showed melted scars and shattered plates.

            As if to confirm her flight of fancy, four of the little bipedal machines took to the air, flames erupting from their feet as they angled for the Mongoose and Hermes.  Midway through their flight, the brief flare of lasers connected the four sprites with the BattleMechs.  The Hermes' left arm came up, and it loosed its most fearsome weapon, sending a gout of flame at the one sprite coming towards it.  The little monster lit up spectacularly, then clanged into the Hermes' chest where it clung for a moment before dropping to the ground and getting stepped on by the light BattleMech.

            Mara heard the whoosh-crack of short-ranged missiles through her armored canopy, and at first through that Victor and his Jenner had arrived, but then her Spider rocked forward from impact explosions.  Snapped from her reverie, she suddenly realized that at least two of the sprites were behind her, and another trio were running towards her 'mech at a speed no infantry could hope to match.  Even as she watched, two stopped, and smoky contrails briefly concealed them as SRMs leapt from their shoulders to impact on her chest.  One missiles rang off the side of her 'mech's head, tossing her around in the cockpit.  The third took off, heading straight for her.  Getting hold of herself, she quickly brought her crosshairs up and snapped off shots from her paired medium lasers.  One flashed low, but the other connected square on the sprite's chest.  Unbelievably, it kept coming, so she swatted it out of the air with a backhand, sending the little pest careening into a tree, where it slid to the ground, broken.

            "Mara, help!" Griegor again yelled through the radio.  Pressing the foot pedals, Mara jogged forward to the beleaguered Mongoose, which was flailing about.  As she neared, it tagged one of the sprites with a emerald laser, the smaller machine simply ceasing to exist under the megajoules of energy.  As it spun, she saw that the Mongoose had two of the little things clinging to its back.  As she watched, the pair fired red lasers into the back of the 'mech, stripping the rest of the already thin armor there.  She strode the last few steps, crushing another beneath her 'mech's feet and reached out to pluck one off the Mongoose's back and fling it away.

            "What the hell ARE these things?" she asked out loud.  Nikolai spun his 'mech around, foiling her grab for the other sprite clinging to its back.  "Damn it, Nikolai, hold still!"

            "Beats the hell out of me, Lieut," came Victor's voice over the radio.  In the background she could hear the trilling discharge of his 'mechs lasers, followed by the launch of his SRMs.  "But they take a helluva lot of killing.  At least two laser shots – shit, hold on,"  There was an odd crashing sound, almost as if he'd ran into something, before he spoke again.  "Had one on my back, he's paste now.  I'm still a good fifty meters away, almost there."

            "Hurry up, Vic, or there won't be a lance left to come home to."

            Nikolai's Mongoose turned back to where she could swat at the thing clinging to its back, and her Spider's fist caught it against the Mongoose's back armor, turning it into a crushed pulp.  Alarms wailed for her attention as her armor outline updated to show angry red scars all over her 'mech.  Motion on her view strip caught her eye as Victor's Jenner burst around a tree and into view.  Lasers flashed from the stubby wing of its left arm, tagging a sprite that had just fired into the Hermes' left knee.  The Jenner's right arm was gone, and a smoking rent was torn in its right torso.

            "Everybody move!  Back to the dust-off point, NOW!" Mara barked into to radio.  A sprite landed on the Jenner's wide, forward thrust head and fired an SRM into the hole in its right torso.  Mara gasped in horror as the warhead touched off Victor's ammunition supplies.  In a single blinding flash, the thirty-five ton BattleMech ceased to exist, bits and pieces of it flying off in every direction and taking three more of the sprites with it.  Victor didn't punch out.  Screaming in rage, she pushed Nikolai's Mongoose to get him moving.  "RUN, damn it!"

            Jennifer Killgore's voice sounded in Mara's cockpit then.  Her lancemate was always quiet, but now she sounded deathly calm.  "I don't think I'm going anywhere, Mara."  Turning to follow her own order, Mara's eye alighted on the supine form of Jennifer's Hermes, its left leg amputated at the knee.  Three of the sprites stood on the 'mech's chest, gleefully stripping armor sheets off with their claws and pumping laser bolts into it.  "You two go."  The Hermes sat up and scraped a pair of the sprites off its chest, then set them alight.  They promptly dropped and rolled, trying in vain to smother the flames.

            Nikolai's 'mech began running, even with a pronounced limp and having to dodge trees faster than heavier machines.  Two of the sprites bounded after it, leaving at least a handful more still within striking distance.

            "I don't think so, Jenny.  You're coming, too."

            "No, Mara.  Go, now."  The flamer belched liquid fire again, missing the sprites but setting more of the forest alight.  The remaining beast on her chest fired again, coring through the last of the Hermes' armor and piercing the physical shielding of the fusion reactor in its breast.  Emergency shutdown controls activated, dampening the reaction before it could rage uncontrolled, and the 'mech flopped over backwards again.  The four sprites on her sensors now had only one target – Mara.  She did the only sensible thing left to her.  

            She ran.  She'd only made it a few steps when she felt and heard a pair of the sprites land on her back.  She toggled the command lance frequency, speaking quickly.  "Epsilon to God, Epsilon to God.  Contact with enemy in northern woods.  Unknown designs, they took out Two and Three."  She slapped a button to transmit some of her battleROM footage to her Colonel.  "I'm calling them sprites, we destroyed at least a dozen -"  An alarm cut her off, warning of a breach in her rear torso armor.

            Knowing it was a bad idea, she hit her Spider's jump jets, hoping to dislodge the pair.  A SDR-5V could jump over two hundred and forty meters a clip.  It also included another, rare feature that made the jump slightly less than the suicide it would have been for any other BattleMech jumping in these thick trees.  Mara feathered the jets' controls, banking her mech around trees older and wider than her thirty-ton machine and she rose above the canopy.  

             "- but there are plenty more.  Get Packard out of the -"  Suddenly her Spider pitched left crazily, the sprite clinging to her back having burrowed into her torso and destroyed several jump jets.  She released the jets, hoping the machine's gyro could bring it upright again, but the damage was done.  She watched, horrified, as the tree canopy rushed towards her.  

            "Oh, shit," she muttered.  Then she struck the first branch, pain lancing through her chest as the restraints cracked ribs, and another, and then Lieutenant Mara Toyama knew nothing.


End file.
